Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lucien jolted out of bed, stomach heaving. He scrambled up, legs twisting in the bedsheets, and his arms splayed out frantically as he struggled to get upright. Something was wrong, very wrong, and he clutched at his empty aching ribcage in panic, desperately seeking the tether inside him that had gone suddenly, eerily silent.

No. No, not her. Gods, I can’t take it.

He stumbled forward, tripping over his boots, then kicking them furiously out of the way as he charged headlong into the bathing chamber, crashing to his knees and vomiting into the toilet, then shoving up onto his elbows and lurching towards the sink, splashing water into his mouth that dribbled down his chin and neck, instantly evaporating into steam.

She was gone — he couldn’t feel her. The bond was cold and empty, like a great chasm had opened up inside him that would drag him down into the pits of hell. But he’d just seen her last night, alive and whole, at the Solstice celebration. What could have happened in the last twenty-four hours?

Lucien’s mind spun out with possibilities, each one worse than the last — she’d been taken again by enemies, dosed with faebane or even — no. He wouldn’t think it. His mind recoiled at the very notion. He wouldn’t consider that possibility, or it would wreck him.

He forced himself to slow down, think strategically through his raging panic. Feyre had not tried to contact him, but he was so far away — perhaps her daemati powers didn’t stretch such a distance. Perhaps she was too busy defending her home, her sisters, while Rhys and his warriors were off in the mountains? Lucien had seen Feyre fight, knew what a formidable opponent she usually made, but she was heavily pregnant. Gods, what if she was taken as well? What if they were targeting her and the baby, and Elain had gotten caught in the crossfire?

You don’t even know if it is an attack. What if Elain is deathly ill, and Feyre is busy trying to heal her? He breathed hard, fighting not to vomit again. He had to stay calm. You can’t help her if you panic.

He had to help her. But first he had to get there. It was a long way to the Night Court, and he’d depleted himself winnowing home late last night, when he couldn’t stand another moment in that depressingly bare rented apartment, alone, ribs aching with longing and sorrow. No matter — he’d rest when she was safe, and no sooner.

He shoved his bare feet into boots, swiped at his closet for the nearest garment, which turned out to be the silk blue jacket he’d worn to last night’s excuse for a Solstice party. He couldn’t think about that now, how humiliating and lonely it was to visit the Night Court, how he was naught but fodder for jokes and pitying glances. None of that mattered, if Elain was in danger.

He flung the fine jacket angrily to the floor, his fingers grasping at handfuls of empty air before landing on a warmer, sturdier, more suitable cloak for the chill Velaris winter, one that had inner panels to conceal weapons. His instincts were screaming at him to get to her, help her, save her, but he couldn’t do that if he showed up unprepared. What if there were attackers, if he had to join combat?

The next minutes were a blur of fumbling in the dark for his throwing daggers, wrangling his disheveled hair into battle braids, stumbling and cursing in the cramped, cluttered bedroom fully knowing he’d wake everyone, but he couldn’t think about that now, not when Elain needed him, Elain was in danger, Elain was missing, sick, lost, taken —

Lucien dashed down the corridor, cloak billowing out behind him, shoving his hands into fingerless combat gloves specially treated to resist blasts of fire, grabbing his sword from the rack on the wall, cringing when every other weapon clattered and several pelted to the floor like hailstones. But he couldn’t stop to pick them up, couldn’t waste another moment.

“Lucien —“ Jurian’s voice called after him, but he was already winnowing, hurtling forward so fast that he stumbled on landing, cursing and scrambling up from the mud, the fields of the ruined Spring Court disappearing again in a swirling haze as he winnowed again. He sprawled out onto a darkened beach in Summer, the sweltering heat slamming into him like a wave, pulling him under.

Lucien winnowed again, and again, tracing his usual route to the Night Court, vistas popping into view and then immediately misting out again. His lungs burned as he gasped for air, his muscles taut, his magic flaring wildly, sizzling around him. He yanked at it, knowing he’d need some for whatever danger he faced at the other end. 

He wouldn’t be too late, not again. He’d get to Velaris in time.

You shouldn’t have left Velaris at all.

He always made this same mistake, always left when he should have stayed, abandoned Elain to be captured by enemies. If he’d stayed with her when he should have done, during the War, escorted her to the battlefield like a proper mate should, she never would have been taken by Hybern. Or at least he could have fought for her, gotten her back, instead of traipsing off across the Continent.

You couldn’t protect Jesminda, either. But at least he’d tried, Cauldron damn him.

He had tried with Elain. But it was always too little, too late. He’d waited too long to go and find her, leaving her to languish for weeks at the Night Court while he’d endured her sisters’s schemes. He’d thought he had to protect Tamlin, figure out what Feyre was doing, but he’d ended up a pawn in her game instead, his reputation shredded, his friendship forever tainted. He’d paid again for his hesitation when they’d been chased through Autumn, hunted again by his fucking brothers, who never seemed to learn their lesson.

Not that it mattered — Elain hadn’t liked him, not in the slightest. And maybe she was right to revile him, for he’d been too weak to stop Tamlin, and too eager to avoid Ianthe to discern what she was plotting. He had nothing to offer a mate, anyway, no home to take her to, no family to introduce to her, nothing except himself, scarred and broken, and a mating bond that she found intrusive and creepy.

So he’d left, escaping the pathetic awkwardness of the Night Court, Rhys and his vultures, leaving Elain to the care of her sisters. And she’d been kidnapped as the result of it.

He winnowed again. Again.

A fierce winter blast whipped at his exposed skin, and he huddled in the cloak, shivering violently for long, painful moments, until he could muster the magic to winnow again. He’d lost track of how many jumps he’d done, or how many more he’d have to go, but he gritted his teeth, and winnowed again, shuddering with relief when the freezing air gave way to the balmier breeze of Dawn, and he could take ragged breaths of the sweet soothing air.

But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t waste a second, so he drew deep on his reserves of power, yanking at the fabric of the world in one final desperate blast, and he toppled forward onto the lawn of the River House, pawing at the manicured grass, tiny flames licking at his hands.

No. I can’t lose control.

He hastily extinguished the stands of errant magic and staggered to his feet, chest heaving, pressing on his ribcage where the bond ought to have been, and took several shaky steps towards the brilliantly lit mansion, grand and imposing against a darkening sky. He’d forgotten how much earlier the Sun set this far north at this time of year, and he squinted up at the festively lit structure, frantically scanning for intruders, hands poised near his throwing daggers.

His ears strained towards the faint sound of chatter, music and laughter muted through glass, and he cocked his head this way and that, trying to catch any stray bit of conversation, some hint as to who the people were. No sobbing or screams, no hint of disruption, and he inched forward, cautious, hackles raised, wondering what clues he was missing.

The river gurgled past, slow and unworried, and his sight strayed to it, heart in his throat that Elain wasn’t at the bottom of some river gorge, that the house hadn’t been stormed and ransacked, that the people within weren’t enemies celebrating their victory. But the atmosphere felt calm and settled, the door still on its hinges, the windows all intact. There was no sign of a struggle at all.

Don’t let your guard down. They could have been surprised in their beds, dragged out screaming.

His heart ached for Elain, who’d already been kidnapped twice, who knew full well the horrors of armed enemies storming her home, handling her roughly —

Please, he prayed to the Mother. Please see that she is spared. Please let her be whole, and in no danger, and I’ll never ask for anything ever again.

He took another step forward, and inside the house, a glass shattered.

Please. Please. I’ll do anything, give anything. Please, just save Elain.

Lucien’s dagger was in his hand, poised to fly through the air, when he heard Feyre curse, then sputter, “Cassian! That’s the third one you’ve dropped!”

“Sorry,” came Cassian’s booming voice, followed by a hearty laugh. “That’s what happens when frostbite takes your fingertips.”

“Gross,” Mor’s voice complained. “You Illyrians and your stupid snowballs.”

Lucien’s dagger arm lowered, his confusion deepening, as more voices flitted out on the evening air towards him, accompanied by the shadow of movement from a window on the lowest floor. Mor and Cassian continued to snipe at each other, with Feyre occasionally chiming in, no inkling of alarm in any of their voices. Then there was Rhys’s low croon, probably some joke or innuendo, for there was a rush of laughter and then Feyre scolding him to stop being a prick. It all sounded so happy, so normal, that Lucien couldn’t understand it.

Where is Elain?

His mechanical eye clicked rapidly as it scanned every window, trying to determine how many people were within, then stopped and unfurled wide when it caught the light emanating from an upper floor window. He stared at it, willing the silhouettes within to come into focus, and almost dropped to his knees in sheer relief when he saw the profile of a lovely female, her mass of curls unbound and draped down her back.

Thank the Mother.

Then a second silhouette joined the first, a taller figure with a broad chest and large wings, their two faces drawing close together.

Lucien took an unsteady step back, then another, the dagger clattering on the ground by his feet, as he finally, finally understood what had happened.

She is happy, then.

He stared up at the window, at Elain, breathing and breathing, relief and despair mingling together, then realized he was staring and that he had to go, could not be seen here, could not come to this house ever again, would never again step foot in this court.

A bleak sort of stillness settled inside him, inside the hollow where the bond had once tugged him, and he turned before he could see any more of their interaction. There were many sights burned into his brain, fodder for regrets and for nightmares, and he didn’t need to add to it.

He swayed, then exploded into fire and light, winnowing straight back to the human realm, his body hurtling at lightning speed, crashing into a tangle of mud and grass, flames searing in all directions and then sputtering out just as abruptly.

He registered dimly that Vassa was running towards him, and Jurian shouting. He let their questions buzz around him in the air, their exclamations of alarm, but exhaustion was claiming him, lowering him into a merciful oblivion.

It’s done. She’s free.

Chapter Text

Lucien blinked away the sleep clinging to his eyes, staring out at the gray misty light streaming in through the windows. Almost dawn.

An anxious feeling flooded him, but he swallowed it back down, scolding himself that he need not panic. There had been a time when he’d lived by the shifting whims of the sun, dreading its rising, celebrating its setting, then whiling away the dark hours with laughter and conversation and pleasure, then dreading the sun’s rising all over again.

The curse is broken, he reminded himself. She’s free.

But he still resented the sun, sometimes. It reminded him of all he’d lost, of all he still had yet to lose, of how his life’s path was always governed by forces so outside his control.

It was foolish, to rail against the relentless flow of time and nature. It felt like sacrilege, like hating the Mother Herself, and one whose luck was so exceedingly fickle should not tempt fate. He knew better than most the depths to which a soul could plummet, and he had no interest in damning himself any further.

“You’re thinking again, aren’t you,” a sultry voice purred at his back.

He grinned into the darkness as Vassa’s delectable soft body pressed against him, her arm twining around him so that she could press against the furrow of his brows, releasing the tension he always held there.

“I’m thinking that we should have breakfast in bed,” he said, reaching his own hand to curl around hers, then leaning up to press a kiss to the center of her palm.

“You always say that, and then the food gets cold,” Vassa chuckled, then made a small noise of pleasure when he kept going, pressing a kiss to her wrist and then to the smooth flesh of her inner arm.

“Only because you’re too delicious,” he murmured, shifting so that he could get better access, darting out his tongue to tickle her skin, then yelping with surprised delight when Vassa shoved him flat against the sheets, pressing her hands onto his shoulders, straddling him, already slick against his skin.

Then Vassa’s eyes flared molten, just for a moment, as the first streaks of sunlight pierced the horizon, and Lucien’s heart rate spiked, his hands reflexively tightening on her. “I’m not going to fly away, Lucien,” she assured him, leaning down to press her sensual curvy form against his. “Koschei is gone.”

“I know, I just,” he began to say, then groaned softly as she kissed him, stealing the worried words right from his lips. He lost himself in her spice and heat, kissing her back, reaching up to cup her breasts, and she made a little noise of pleasure before sliding back, grasping his cock firmly, wrenching a gasp from him.

“Impatient, your Majesty,” he teased, but he was the impatient one, the one who couldn’t get enough of her, those curves of warm brown skin and those piercing turquoise eyes. How many more times would he get to see her like this, feel her surrounding him? Every moment they had together was beautiful and fleeting, and he memorized each one, savored it.

Vassa’s eyes sparkled, her wicked hand moving on him, slicking him down. Your Majesty was a provocation, but she wasn’t taking the bait, wasn’t pointing out that she hadn’t yet regained her realm. That day was drawing near, when she would ascend to her rightful place on the throne of Scythia, Jurian at her side as her general and consort, but preparations were still being made, both here and amongst her loyal courtiers and soldiers back home.

And in the meantime, she lingered with Lucien, extending this sweet interlude another month, then another.

Another week, another day. Another moment like this. He took none of them for granted.

Lucien sheathed himself in her, hissing with pleasure as she shifted, taking him deeper. This was a dance they did so well, and he lost himself in its rhythms, following Vassa’s lead as she set the pace, took what she wanted from him. She tossed her head back, her unbound curls cascading loose around her as she rode him, rolling her hips, meeting his thrusts, until they were both panting and crying out together.

Vassa’s lips brushed his, slow and sensual, and he lay back against the pillows and let his eyes flutter closed as she pushed herself up, then padded off to the bathing chamber. Sometimes he followed her, cleaning her like an attentive lover should, sometimes getting sidetracked into getting them both messy again. But lately she’d wanted a bit more solitude, and he respected it. It was her small way of establishing a boundary, acknowledging the truth that neither wanted to articulate.

“Lucien?”

He jolted at the sound of his name on her lips, frowning to see that she was already bathed and dressed. Must have fallen asleep again. This is becoming a habit.

He smiled sheepishly at himself. He had years of sleep to catch up on, decades and centuries of restless nights where his tortured mind couldn’t settle, where he’d grasped at the handle of the dagger under his pillow, or listened to bellowing and cursing reverberating through walls, wondering who was the target and if he might be next. Even when he was long gone from Autumn, and Spring and the Mountain, there were the nights he shoved away nightmares, where he gathered up Jesminda’s broken body, or a leering Amarantha cackling as Tamlin’s whip seared across his back, or a sobbing human girl was shoved into the depths of the Cauldron, and he was always fucking helpless, watching as everyone he loved was taken, or what little progress he’d built up towards finding a home was torn down and ruined.

He would wake up sweating, tears streaming from his good eye, his mechanical one whirring out of control, and he would spend the rest of the night pacing, or writing letters that never got sent, or drinking endless cups of tea, or wine if he was desperate, and staring out at the dark merciless night until welcoming another bleary dawn. Then he would shove down his sorrows, mask them with joking or laughter or sarcasm, dreading the nighttime and the exhaustion that would drown him.

It had only been here in this bedroom, with Vassa’s warm presence beside him, that he’d been able to let go fully enough to get proper rest. He could let down his guard here completely, between her fierce firebird form that he knew would protect him, and her unflinching, diligent care for him. She’d been the one to force him to eat, during those first weeks and months after the bond had been shattered, who’d found him curled on the floor of his bedroom and had brought in her own bedding to lay on the ground beside him.

On really bad nights she and Jurian had both stayed with him, keeping him pressed in between them, anchoring him to this world when all he wanted to do was wander out of it, seek the oblivion of death that never came for him. He’d been certain he was already gone, that his miserable existence was finally ended, but Vassa had dragged him forward into a new life, a strange kind of reprieve that he grasped at with both hands.

“Come on,” she cajoled him, swatting at his legs still tangled up in the bedsheets. “I’m tired of making excuses for you.”

“Tamlin won’t care,” Lucien said airily, even as he obediently pushed up to sit, then swung his legs to the side and pushed up from the bed, dragging half of the bedding with him. “I’m entitled to a little rest. I put in enough early mornings patrolling his court.”

Me and Andras, patrolling together. That was a strand of memory he refused to tug on, for if he did so, it might unravel him. The loss of Andras still tormented him, if he let it, all the more so because his friend been so easily forgotten, his death weighed so little compared to the sacrifices of others. Yet Andras had been the most willing to die, had departed the relative safety of Tamlin’s manor determined to perish at the hands of a human with hate in her heart, all so that Prythian could have a future he’d never be part of. He was more of a cursebreaker than Feyre ever was.

“It’s not just Tamlin we’re meeting with,” Vassa said, tossing him a towel that he carelessly swiped across his skin. He should probably bathe, scrub the scent of their coupling away, but he liked smelling like sex and Vassa. He dreaded the day that the spice of her scent truly faded from his skin, when the bedding and rooms of this manor became musty and lifeless again.

“I thought Kal and Viviane returned home. Isn’t it almost Solstice?” he asked, scrunching his forehead as he strained to recall the details. You’re getting old and careless, he chided himself. He refused to think about Solstice itself, and the empty ache that always settled over him during the days leading up to what had once been a happy occasion.

“They did. It is. But Briar chose to remain,” Vassa said.

He turned towards her, and the sly smile on her face dragged a smile to his own lips. He could never stay morose around her for long. “Is that so?”

“Oh, it is. Surely you noticed those lingering glances,” she said, and he snorted in agreement. Glances were all that Tamlin would venture, when he still staggered under the weight of his own heartbreak and humiliation. But the human woman he’d helped to rescue from the Hybern war camp was patient, all the more so because she, too, fought bad memories and bore scars from the war.

“Well, I’m glad of it. They deserve every happiness,” Lucien said, shoving his legs into undergarments and then the first pair of pants he swiped from his drawers, then shuffled around in his closet for the matching tunic.

“It’s not hard to see her? She doesn’t remind you of… other things?” Vassa asked, her voice growing gentle.

Lucien’s shoulders slumped a little. Briar did bring up associations of another female, kidnapped by Hybern to the same war camp, and a desperate rescue that he’d failed to be part of. But he declared, with more conviction than he felt, “I’m not going to let that get in the way.”

That was what he always told himself, whenever his failed mating bond and all that fraught history rose up in his memory. He’d been consumed by grief once, ashamed and despondent, and had clawed his way back to living over months and years of concerted effort. He couldn’t let anything drag him back down again.

“What are you two doing up there?” Jurian’s voice floated up the stairs towards them. “Stop braiding each other’s hair, or whatever. We’re going to be late.”

“We know,” Vassa yelled towards the doorway, then turned back to Lucien, rolling her eyes. Lucien smirked, but made no comment. Jurian and Vassa had their own issues to work through, but being irritated with each other was practically a form of foreplay for them. “Gods, he is bossy.”

“You’re going to appreciate that, when he’s keeping your soldiers in line,” Lucien said. That was what Jurian had done for the humans in this territory, wasn’t it — organized them, focused their energy, prevented them from charging into Spring and wreaking havoc in some misguided revenge against faeries for what Hybern had done to them. And they’d listened, for what Hybern had done to Jurian was far worse, though he didn’t much talk about it. He and Lucien had their own understanding of what Amarantha was, what had transpired Under the Mountain. Whatever horrors Lucien had witnessed, Jurian had seen a hundredfold more, and had somehow survived that and being broken apart, then remade in the Cauldron. Lucien reminded himself of that, whenever he was tempted to wallow in self-pity.

Vassa huffed softly, curling strands of her hair behind her ears — those adorable round ears that Lucien loved to run his fingertips over. “As long as he doesn’t get delusions of grandeur. Scythia will never suffer a male to rule.”

Lucien approached her, sliding his hands over the silken fabric of her dress, which clung to her form in all the right places. “Jurian knows that,” he assured her softly. “He would not have sworn to it, otherwise.”

Jurian had never coveted a kingdom for himself, hated the very idea of royalty, in fact. Having a monarch was a necessary evil, to prevent mass chaos and lawlessness, but Jurian knew better than anyone that a crown could perch on the head of an unfit ruler. It made his solemn vow not to seek the throne for himself, and his willing submission to Vassa’s rule, all the more valuable.

And it was a relief to Lucien, who would have hated to have to duel with a friend, but he would protect Vassa and her claim to the throne no matter what it took.

Even if what it took was being alone.

Don’t think about that. You still have time.

Lucien pressed a soft kiss to Vassa’s lips, cradling her face in his hands. He could still do this — still touch her, still give her pleasure, and he savored it. If it weren’t for their obligations to Prythian, to the folk who were recovering from war, or suffering under unjust treatment, he would have happily told Tamlin to fuck off for another day so that he could cherish Vassa in the daytime, alone.

But he forced himself to ask, “Shall we go?”

Vassa’s eyes crinkled in the corners as she smiled. “If you’re ready.”

Lucien made himself smile as well, though a hollow ache was building inside him, as it always did when he stepped foot into Prythian, especially Spring. There were too many ghosts there, and until recently Tamlin had been among them. “Since when has it mattered whether I’m ready?”

He’d meant it as a joke, but they both flinched at it, for it was more true than he wanted to admit. Life always happened, whether he was ready or not, and it was hubris to think he could control it.

Vassa grasped his chin. “It does matter,” she said firmly. “You’ve been pliant to everyone else’s needs for too long. This isn’t — that court, where you were made to feel that you didn’t matter. Everyone else knows better.”

Lucien kissed her again, his heart swelling with love and gratitude. “I’m going to miss you so much,” he said hoarsely.

Vassa’s gaze softened, her eyes becoming glassy. ”My offer stands, you know.”

“I know. And it’s tempting, truly,” he said, brushing loose strands of silky hair back from her face, frowning when a tear slipped down her cheek. He brushed it away with a fingertip, evaporating it into a wisp of steam. “But you’ve got a destiny to fulfill, a whole realm of humans depending on you. Having a fae hanging around would only be a distraction, a disruption to the future you’re trying to build.”

I’d be lucky if they didn’t run me out of the territory with torches and pitchforks.

Lucien had never considered going to Scythia as anything except a visiting emissary, certainly not as the queen’s consort or lover. Human-fae relations were still uneasy, and it made no difference if he was one of the good faeries. He was still a faerie, intrinsically dangerous, descended from a race of enslavers who’d oppressed and murdered their kind. Humans had no real reason to trust him. The last thing Vassa needed was to have to waste valuable energy and time defending him, or defending herself for being with him, when she already faced an uphill battle to regain her position and wrangle Scythia back towards peace and prosperity.

Vassa sighed softly, not arguing the point. “It’s just… so unfair.”

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. Fair had never been part of the equation, not for him. In his long life he had been unreasonably lucky, and terribly unlucky, as the Mother willed it. He had made his last deal with Her long ago, and had kept his part of it — he had never, and would never, ask Her for anything again.

He leaned in to Vassa, letting her familiar warmth and scent comfort him, even though their words were bitter. “We always knew this time was stolen.” Between Vassa’s curse, and his many misfortunes, it was sometimes hard to believe that they’d found each other at all.

“I suppose I ought to be grateful that we were able to steal as much as we have,” Vassa said, reaching up to brush his right cheek. Was he crying, too? He hadn’t realized it. Then she kissed him soundly, and he drew her close, savoring the feel of her pressed up against him. “But we’re not finished yet, not until I see you settled in somewhere.”

Lucien drew back, startled. He’d been planning to stay here at the manor. This had become his home, over the past twelve years. It was a place of refuge and happy memories, despite the rocky start when he’d been bound to the Night Court, and the years of raw grief that had followed. He couldn’t imagine leaving it forever.

Vassa kept going, anticipating the objection before he could speak it. “You’re always welcome to use this manor, just as Jurian and I will use it when we visit this area. But you were never meant to live all alone, Lucien. Whether you return to Spring —“

“No,” Lucien said quickly. Was that why she was eager to push these visits with Tamlin? He would never be able to live at the manor again, not after everything that had happened. His friendship with Tamlin was mostly recovered, but the level of trust they’d once had was gone forever. Neither of them was the same as they’d been before Amarantha and Ianthe, before Feyre and her sisters, and there was no point in trying to pretend otherwise.

“Fine. Not Spring,” Vassa went on smoothly. ”You’ll have many other offers. Just know that you are not going to be left behind.”

Lucien nodded, too overcome for words.

Just then, Jurian’s voice hollered, “Get moving, you two, or I’m leaving without you!”

Vassa scowled, but Lucien laughed heartily. He kissed Vassa one final time, then offered her his arm, and they strolled out of the room together.

Chapter Text

Lucien mounted his horse in one fluid motion, patting its sleek neck with one hand while he scanned the horizon. His mechanical eye clicked softly as it roved over the near hills and distant rivers, scanning for threats and disruptions to the wards — an old habit that he’d always retained, no matter how many years had passed since Amarantha’s strangling grip over this land had been broken. “Where are we going next, Tam?”

“One more stop north of here, then back to the manor. I think we’ve kept our guests waiting long enough,” Tamlin said, turning his horse away from the treeline, and Lucien followed him, his mind buzzing.

Our guests. He talks like I still live here. Spring had not been his home in a dozen years, but Lucien didn’t have the heart to correct him.

They’d been riding through the countryside most of the afternoon, after a lovely lunch back at the manor, periodically dismounting to inspect the lakes and tributaries that held the western villages’ water supply, and cataloguing the requests of the folk for supplies, even mediating a few disputes brought to their attention. Lucien had been happy to lend his aid, though it felt strange to be back on duty after all the years he had barely been welcome enough to visit. Anyway, Tamlin didn’t need his help, at least not with patrolling.

No, what Tamlin wanted was to talk, and he wanted to be outdoors to do it. Some topics, it seemed, were too weighty for the four walls of the manor. Those walls were newly repaired, each stone fitted back into its moorings, so that they could properly hold the house together. The manor had once seemed impenetrable, and yet the sturdiest walls had all but crumbled to rubble. Perhaps because they were built to resist dangers from outside, not within. There had been a time, not long ago, when Tamlin didn’t even try to repair them, had welcomed the rot and disintegration.

Now the whole manor was rebuilt and strong, spruced up and polished to a shine, each room tastefully arrayed in an understated but elegant style that would have made Tamlin’s mother happy. And although Ostara's rose garden was not yet newly blooming, the rows of lovingly planted wildflowers and hedges and sapling trees hummed with birds and insects, practically bursting with new growth and vigor. To Lucien’s relief, the recovery seemed to extend to the villages and waterways far beyond the manor grounds, though he didn’t doubt that there was much more work to be done. Still, Spring was more robust and healthy than Lucien could have dared to hope for.

Tamlin, too, seemed to be shiny and fresh, like a naughty boy who’d taken a plunge into the mud against mother’s orders, and had been fussed over and scolded while being scrubbed clean. He’d shorn his overlong hair, scrubbed under his nails, and pressed himself into a suit finer than what he’d worn the day of his ill-fated wedding. And, even better, he was less sunburnt, less gaunt and sleepless, indicating that he was tending to himself with at least some of the same care he was showing his court.

But then Tamlin’s green eyes turned towards him, and Lucien could see the weariness lingering in them, the long years of sorrow and isolation still weighing heavily upon him. He’d pushed Lucien away during the years after the War, too despondent and self-destructive to tolerate attempts at comfort. There was nothing Lucien could have done about it, but he still felt guilty that Tamlin had been left to pick up the pieces of his shattered dreams without the support of friends or family. There had been only occasional visits from Lucien, whom he’d thought betrayed him, and a gloating Rhys, condescending to him in his time of desperation.

As if Tamlin could hear those thoughts, he commented wryly, “Those new wards of yours are very effective.”

“Are they?” Lucien quirked an eyebrow at him. “I hope they haven’t been tested too thoroughly.”

“Rhysand fancies himself a savior, bestowing the gift of his presence upon me,” Tamlin said, “so you can imagine his surprise when he was kept out completely.”

That was startling to Lucien, that any magic of his could counteract a High Lord’s, especially Rhys and his dark, unnatural power. But he only said, “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Compared to other things, it is minor,” Tamlin shrugged, and Lucien could only nod in agreement. Still, it satisfied him to think that the manor was more secure, that the Night Court could not drop in unannounced whenever the mood struck them.

Tamlin nudged his horse to a trot, and Lucien followed suit, as they reached the open fields that bordered the northern corridor. These villages and towns had been the most lightly trampled and burned by Hybern soldiers on the march, after they’d released their full bloodlust and terror on the unfortunates further south. The stores of grain and other supplies had been thoroughly raided as the hordes had prepared to cross the Summer Court border, gearing up for their attacks on Adriata and other targets. But for all that, many structures had been spared entirely, or sustained only minimal damage,

Still, the dilapidated state of the towns, the many abandoned croplands and shuttered market stalls, gave Lucien pause. Even after all this time, so much had not been rebuilt, so many of Tamlin’s people had not returned. Were they dead, or too weak to make the return journey, to face the ruin and the memories, and try to restore their former lives? Or were they just making a new start elsewhere?

“We should talk about resettlement at the summit, see if any more Spring folk are ready to come home,” he said, keeping his tone light and casual, seeing the pained look on Tamlin’s face. The High Lord blamed himself for this destruction, for the horrors Hybern had inflicted on his people and court, and Lucien knew that there was nothing he could say that would alleviate that guilt. Some of it truly had been Tamlin’s fault, for his clumsy tangling with Hybern’s King when he should have steered clear. Trying to double cross a double-crosser had been a fool’s business, and Tamlin a lovesick fool enough to attempt it.

But some of the fault had also been Feyre’s, for her weeks of subterfuge and scheming, her deliberate undermining of the court’s defenses. She had set out with the express purpose of toppling Tamlin’s court, and had never made an effort to apologize or make amends to any of those whose lives had been affected. Even if she bore some regrets, as any decent person would, those regrets never troubled her enough to do anything about them.

She was so young, her defenders would say, and she did have some even here, who recalled Feyre Cursebreaker and her heroic actions Under the Mountain, never mind what she might have done afterwards. She did not understand the full implications of her actions.

Why did she become a High Lady, then? he was always tempted to ask. She was brand new to Prythian, and only turning twenty. Why was she so eager to rule over us?

Lucien knew more of Night’s inner workings than any other outsider, yet there were many things that still puzzled him. From where Feyre conjured her authority, when she had not been imbued by her court’s magic, was one of the great mysteries, as well as why Rhys had thought her fit to rule in the first place. Rhys had passed over much more skilled and knowledgeable warriors, both male and female, who’d spent centuries helping him govern. Did they enjoy taking marching orders from a wholly inexperienced and untutored ruler? Or were they molding her, manipulating her, for their own purposes?

Had Feyre been willing to listen to him, had his access to his mate not been in constant jeopardy, Lucien might have warned her to be cautious, to carefully examine the attitudes of her new inner circle. They were not evil folk, despite their reputation as bloodthirsty and brutish — there were even things he admired about them. But they were relentlessly self-interested, insular and short-sighted, which made them rude and dismissive, set in their ways, oblivious to how their decisions harmed innocents. And Feyre had seamlessly fit in, avidly taking up all their worst habits, thinking them virtuous.

She was your friend, once, he reminded himself. You saved each other. But any connection they’d shared had been severed, along with the bond that her sister had rejected.

“The folk who fled this land will never return. It is time I accepted it,” Tamlin said, his tone flat, as though he were trying to suppress his sorrow at it. “I cannot force them to want to come back, to give this place another chance, and I will not attempt it.”

Lucien agreed wholeheartedly with this sentiment, but said, “Still, the offer could be made in good faith, in case any are wondering if they would be welcome.”

Tamlin shook his head, his cornsilk hair glinting in the misty sunshine. Lucien suppressed the urge to compliment him on how clean it was. “The summit’s agenda has already grown long, without burdening this one gathering with all my court’s woes. We must keep the focus squarely where it belongs, on the humans.”

Lucien nodded, seeing the wisdom in this. The problem of the human refugee camps in Summer, and human-faerie relations more generally, deserved their full attention. Especially since old prejudices about the inferiority of non-High Fae fed right into the problem, and that had been an issue long dear to his heart. But he couldn’t resist saying, “One human in particular, I think.”

Tamlin flushed deeply, and Lucien’s lips curled into a smile. “Briar really is lovely, Tam. I hope Jurian and Vassa aren’t overwhelming her.”

They had deliberately left all three humans back at the manor, sensing that they might want to talk amongst themselves. It was a strain for Tamlin to allow humans at the manor at all, with the guilt that still tugged at him for what his family had done, but he’d made up for it by throwing them a feast worthy of Nynsar or Solstice. Vassa was a queen, after all, and Jurian a war hero, and if he impressed Briar along the way, well, so much the better.

Lucien never would have pictured Tamlin with the sweet, youthful human girl, but he had to admit that there was a certain affinity there. They had both suffered, been shaped by tragedy, and were both gathering up the strength to finally move on. Briar had gone back to Winter after the War, and for one so scarred and traumatized by Hybern, Lucien thought she’d done remarkably well. She had spent most of the last ten years acclimating to Prythian and making friends among the seasonal court faeries, occasionally visiting the human refugee camps as well.

Lucien had seen her a few times during those years, when his own crushing sorrows had made him a poor conversation partner, and her own fraught history had left her similarly quiet and withdrawn. With the way her pale skin made almost translucent by the climate, she’d looked frozen over in the landscape of Winter, despite the warm attentions of her hosts, especially Viviane, who treated her like a sister. Winter had lost so many during the occupation, especially younglings, that they yearned to care for young survivors like Briar, like the act comforted them. And Briar had certainly benefited from it.

But now, after spending time at the Spring Court, Briar’s face was newly flush with color — whether due to the warmer sunshine, or the presence of the High Lord of Spring, he wasn’t sure. It was obvious to Lucien that she admired Tamlin, though his friend was too nervous to properly appreciate it. Tamlin seemed flummoxed by all the compliments to his home and court, and utterly paralyzed when it came to the sweet girl who clearly cared for him. Whatever his reputation in wider Prythian, to Briar he was a rescuer and hero, the one who had guarded her in the war camp and chased off her tormentors, and who’d sacrificed his own safety in order to help her escape.

Perhaps he didn’t trust it. Lucien could understand that. Tamlin had been misled before.

But Briar had chosen to come to Spring, and chosen to stay. There was power in that. Being chosen, being wanted, was a glorious feeling, one he hoped Tamlin would get to experience.

“Briar ought to spend more time with other humans, especially those who live in the human lands,” Tamlin fretted, “before she decides to stay in Prythian permanently. Perhaps she would be happier among her own kind.”

It was a surprisingly thoughtful thing for Tamlin to say, and Lucien must have looked suitably astonished at it, for Tamlin went on, abashedly, “I do not wish to make the same errors that I made… before.”

Before meant Feyre, and all the ways their brief, ardent love had gone wrong. It was still a tender subject, but after Lucien had left Night for good, he and Tamlin had been able to talk about it more openly. Tamlin regretted dragging Feyre to Prythian at all, and regretted he’d not sent her back home with her memory glamoured. He wished she’d never gone Under the Mountain, and that he’d not been so possessive and unreasonable upon their return. He’d been so determined to keep her safe that he’d been oblivious to a different kind of danger, and had ruined whatever love had been developing between them.

“I told myself that Rhysand was her mate, that they were destined to be together, regardless of what I did or what mistakes I made,” Tamlin had once confessed to him miserably. “But seeing what happened to you, with your mate… perhaps the bond is not as compelling as I’d once imagined. Perhaps if I had been better, she would have stayed.”

Lucien had grimaced, but had appreciated the honesty, all the more so because he’d gotten tired of people being so careful around him. He’d had years to come to terms with the rejection, to be strong enough to tolerate conversation on the topic, even the occasional intrusive question. There had been a time when any reminder of her had threatened to send him into a spiral of despair and humiliation, but now he felt he had much less to fear.

And Tamlin, who knew exactly what it felt like to yearn for a female who so thoroughly reviled him, had been heartened to see that Lucien could move on after having been brought so low, that he could enjoy the company of females again. That Lucien and Vassa had fallen in love had sparked a desperate hope that there was life after an Archeron sister. And Briar’s presence here at the manor only seemed to confirm it.

“Briar seems to like it here. The warmer weather suits her,” Lucien commented. “And though you might not believe it, I think she likes you very much.”

Tamlin nodded stiffly. “She is special, Lucien. So strong, so resilient. And yet, so human.”

Lucien gave him a knowing look. “Just your type, then.”

“Indeed.” Tamlin fell silent for a while, and the clomp of the horses’ hooves and the wind whistling through the trees surrounded them for long moments until he finally went on, “It worries me.”

“What does?”

“If I fall too hard, if I feel too much,” Tamlin tried to explain. His throat bobbed, his green eyes fluttering closed, before he managed to go on, “What if I’m no better than I was before?”

Lucien let the question linger for a moment as he searched for a good way to answer. “Do you think you’ve changed for the better?”

“I’d like to think so,” Tamlin answered, without hesitation. “But I don’t want to risk another loss like that, Lucien. I … my heart couldn’t stand it.”

Could that happen? Lucien had asked the same thing of himself. As much progress as he thought he’d made, what if he was really tested?

“For what it’s worth, I do think you’re moving in a good direction,” he said finally. Tamlin was wiser, sadder, more thoughtful and circumspect than Lucien had ever seen, which would hopefully translate into being a better lover and partner. “But if you’re worried about it, you could tell her so?”

Tamlin’s heavy brows lifted, as though he were shocked at the suggestion. But then his shoulders sagged in defeat. “I don’t know if she’d want to hear it. I don’t know if I could even explain it.”

“You explained it fine to me,” Lucien said. That had always been Tamlin’s problem — how he struggled to express his feelings in words. Evidently he still didn’t trust himself to do it. “I think she’d be willing to listen.”

“I do not want to burden her,” Tamlin admitted.

“Your feelings are not a burden, Tam,” Lucien pointed out. “Or at least, they shouldn’t be. Not if she wants to be with you. If she’s ready to take that step, she would want you to share them.”

Tamlin slumped a little more. “I had hoped to simply be better, to avoid the whole problem completely.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works," Lucien softly chuckled. "Not that I’m the expert — far from it.”

“I don’t know,” Tamlin said. “Maybe you are. After all, you’ve survived a broken bond, and you haven’t gone mad.”

Lucien’s stomach twisted. He’d survived, even when he’d wished he hadn’t, but to hear it put like that —

He barked a laugh, because what else was there to do? “Are we sure about that?”

Tamlin’s lip twitched — the closest to a smile Lucien had seen in a long time — and then he turned his horse back towards the manor. “Come on, old friend, let’s see what havoc they’ve gotten up to.”

“With Jurian and Vassa under the same roof? Anything’s possible. At least she’s got control over her firebird form, so she’s unlikely to have torched the dining room,” Lucien quipped.

Tamlin chuckled, but then galloped towards the manor, as though he didn’t want to risk it.

Lucien nudged his horse to go a bit faster, to keep up with Tamlin’s steed that he was intending to give Briar as a gift upon their return. He’d explained that it was so she could roam around the Spring Court freely, with a gentle but capable companion that could gallop to get Tamlin if there was trouble, or just spirit her swiftly back home. That was different, and encouraging. He really is changing, Lucien thought hopefully.

The horses slowed, allowing them to dismount, and Lucien’s thoughts were still buzzing as he followed Tamlin in through the newly restored grand entrance, nodding to the serving folk and sentries they passed. He got nods in return, even a few smiles, and some part of him that he hadn’t realized was clenched with anxiety began to relax.

They’ve forgiven me for leaving them. If only he could forgive himself as readily.

If you’d stayed here like a loyal friend would, instead of following Feyre on some misguided romantic fool’s errand, you could have helped rally Tamlin’s people. Maybe all that death and heartache could have been avoided.

“—still think it’s asking for trouble,” Vassa’s strident voice floated out to them from the dining room.

To Lucien’s surprise, Briar’s clear voice answered. “It may be, but Viviane thinks the risk is worth it, and I’m inclined to agree with her.”

Lucien followed Tamlin into the room, smiling broadly at the sight of Vassa and Jurian seated close together, elbows touching, and Briar sitting with them, leaned forward, evidently arguing like old friends already. “What risk is worth it?” he asked, sliding into the chair next to Vassa and giving her an almost-chaste peck on the cheek, then reaching for the wine.

Vassa straightened at the question, but it was Jurian who answered first. “Whether to invite the solar courts to the upcoming summit.”

The solar courts? Lucien’s stomach twisted further.

Tamlin’s voice came out as a barely leashed snarl. “Why.”

Briar looked up at him forthrightly, not seeming to be put off at all. “They’re half of Prythian, aren’t they? Whatever efforts are made to help the humans, shouldn’t they be involved with it?”

“You mean, the seasonal courts don’t want to pay for it all,” Jurian drawled, leaning back in his chair, crossing an ankle over a knee.

“Probably,” Briar conceded. “I’m sure that’s part of it.”

Lucien frowned, trying to process this information through his haze of swirling emotions. Kal and Viviane had not mentioned any particular financial hardship. He’d thought the new trade deal he’d negotiated between the four seasonal courts had put them all on sound footing, so that each court could run a trade surplus in their best commodities. Had he miscalculated somehow? Were they displeased with the arrangements?

Why consort with those people again, when they’d been working so hard to gain independence? What if Feyre tried to talk to him, guilt him into coming back? What if she came, or the male she had married —

Vassa laid a hand on his arm, and he suddenly realized that he’d evaporated all of the wine in his glass, the steam rising ominously into the air. He hastily put the glass down, then squeezed her hand, trying to master his reaction. It’s just a suggestion. It doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.

He swallowed a few times, then tried to speak coherently. “Most of the burden for the human settlers has fallen on Summer. And they are hosting this year’s gathering. Wouldn’t it be prudent to check with Tarquin?”

“He’ll say yes to anything anyone asks, you know that,” Vassa huffed, her turquoise eyes flashing.

“Tarquin is an idealist,” Tamlin said. “Sometimes to a fault. He is willing to trust — certain people — more than the rest of us. Even when they’ve lied, and stolen, and manipulated, he can’t help but give them more and more chances.” He sat heavily in his usual chair, flicking his fingers to pour wine for everyone, then addressed Briar. “You mentioned Viviane. Is her husband in agreement?”

“I don’t see why she needs her husband’s agreement,” Vassa snapped. Nearby, Jurian snorted in amusement, and she swatted at him in annoyance.

“She doesn’t. I am just wondering,” Tamlin said through gritted teeth, trying valiantly to stay patient. “I am curious, as well, if Eris agrees.”

“Eris would agree to whatever would personally benefit him,” Lucien said, rolling his eyes. Dealing with his conniving brother gave him quite the headache.

At least you don’t have to deal with Beron.

Briar looked around the table, clearly having not expected this reaction. “I know the courts have a history,” she said, her eyes finally resting on Tamlin. “But when a truly important issue arises, could you not try to work together?”

“It’s not us who aren’t willing,” Tamlin said. “Some people think it their Cauldron-granted right to throw their weight around, pick fights at diplomatic conferences, intimidate and threaten until they get their way.” He saw the disappointment in Briar’s expression, then added in a conciliatory tone, “If past experience is any judge, we would get more done without them.”

Vassa stroked the inside of Lucien’s arm in little soothing circles, and he kept breathing, even as the idea of encountering Night Court representatives rolled around in his mind. Rhys’s preening and condescension, that smug superiority that Feyre had taken on in her manner, and the glowering warriors, especially one in particular that his mate had chosen over him —

Jurian shoved a glass at him, and he downed the contents, not even looking to see what he was drinking. It turned out to be strong wine that burned sour in the back of his throat, and he reached for the water right afterwards.

“There’s nothing wrong with inviting Dawn. Thesan won’t attend in person, but they’ll probably send Nuan, who is delightful,” Vassa said. Lucien had to smile at that, for Vassa and Nuan were a menace together, teasing him relentlessly, and he thoroughly enjoyed it. “And I suppose Day isn’t so bad.”

Lucien swallowed the water down, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Perhaps not, but there’s some bad blood between Eris and Helion. He refuses to tell me what it’s about.”

“We should definitely invite Helion then. Maybe he’ll punch Eris’s smug nose out of joint, do us all a favor,” Jurian chortled.

“It’s a diplomatic summit, not a prizefight,” Lucien grumbled, though the idea of Eris taking a punch to the face did sound appealing.

“Helion knows better than to fight at a conference. It’s the Night Court who always gets violent,” Tamlin said bitterly. “If Rhysand is allowed to attend the proceedings, he will take over, as he always does, using his mind-powers to silence opposition.”

Jurian shifted in his seat, refilling Lucien’s drink and then his own. “Some of that is personal,” he said mildly.

“I don’t care. Everyone else seems to have forgotten who he is, what he did to Prythian,” Tamlin snapped. “Just like they all believed Amarantha wanted trade deals and peaceful relations, they will continue to believe in Rhysand’s noble goodness, even though he has amply demonstrated that he will eagerly sacrifice them, their younglings, everything sacred, as soon as his own interests are threatened. And that mate of his will defend his actions as righteous, no matter how vile or gratuitous.”

Lucien sat back, uninterested in arguing the point. He no longer represented the Night Court and had absolutely no stake in maintaining their image, or defending them to others. Even if Tamlin took it a little too far, it was a relief to be able to sit in mixed company and hear them criticized openly, and not feel obligated to speak up for them.

They would never defend me, he thought ruefully. They’d probably join right in.

Briar said, “I don’t think the High Lord or Lady would attend. Not with the pregnancy.”

Tamlin’s face drained of color. “Pregnancy?”

“So you have not heard. Perhaps it is not common knowledge,” Briar mused. She frowned at Tamlin’s pained expression, but went on, “Viviane corresponds with a Night Court friend, and it was mentioned in a recent letter. The High Lady is again with child.”

Lucien was honestly shocked to hear it. Feyre’s last pregnancy had been difficult. Although the details of the actual birth had been kept far under wraps, he knew that there had been  concerns about the delivery.

Tamlin sat frozen, trying to process this news, while Vassa questioned, “You’re sure it’s the High Lady? Not… one of her sisters?”

Elain cradling a baby, Elain as a mother. The image his mind conjured was sorely tempting.

Lucien mentally slapped himself. He was not going to let his thoughts wander in that direction. Every time he thought he’d rid himself of the bond and its associations, something always snapped him back, reminded him of exactly what he’d lost, when in reality he’d never had it to begin with.

He’d never take that risk with Vassa, either. If faeries were despised in the human realm, half-faeries were outright persecuted. He’d never be able to leave Vassa’s side, no matter how badly it ruined her chances at reigning successfully, for he’d be damned if he left her to raise and defend their child all alone. It would be neglectful, not to mention dangerous. Younglings were a blessing from the Mother, but he knew from his mother’s long suffering that they could also be a burden.

“Well,” Jurian drawled, “maybe we can invite them after all, and let them be the ones to say no. That will get them out of our hair.”

“I doubt that,” Lucien said, but he turned back to Briar. “You’ve spent the most time with the humans living in Prythian, out of anyone. Do you think the situation is truly that dire?”

Briar nodded tearfully, and Tamlin cleared his throat, shaking himself out of his shocked stupor. “If it is truly necessary, for the good of your people, then we will find a way,” he pledged, his voice surprisingly clear and steady. “The squabbles between our courts need not be a barrier.”

Lucien tried to nod enthusiastically, though his emotions were roiling inside him. If he didn’t have to see Feyre, or Rhys, at least that would be something. And although Rhys had experimented with sending Cassian and Nesta on diplomatic missions, in the past, their efforts had been laughable, at least according to Eris. “They’ll probably send Morrigan,” he said, his mind spinning through the possibilities. “She’s mostly harmless.”

Jurian gave a derisive snort. “She’s less benign than you think. And she lies like a blanket.”

"They all do," Tamlin said. "And we would do well not to forget it."

Vassa leaned in close to Lucien, squeezing his hand. “Are you going to be okay with this?”

“I have to face the Night Court sometime,” he reasoned, which he knew was no answer.

Vassa knew it, too. “It does not have to be now.”

“No, but with Feyre and Rhys out of the way, maybe it’s better,” he said hopefully, noting out of the corner of his eye how Briar had gotten up and walked over to Tamlin, how they were talking earnestly in low voices. “Maybe the longer I wait, the more it builds up in my mind. Now I can just get it over with, and it will be clear that it wasn’t my doing, or for any ulterior motive. And it is for a good cause.”

Vassa clucked her tongue. “You make it sound so logical. Like it’s what you would have chosen.”

“Is it working?” he asked, winking conspiratorially at her.

She laughed delicately, and kissed him. “Not at all.”

Chapter Text

“I got us in trouble with our fathers? That’s not the way I remember it,” Lucien chuckled, taking another swig of his sunrise wine. “It may have been my idea to sneak out of the palace, but you’re leaving out the part where you and Varian pushed me off the pier.”

Cresseida laughed delightedly, shifting forward in her chair to grasp her own chilled drink, the pearls on her sheer gown clacking against her chair. “And you’re leaving out the part where you dared me and Varian to do it. And I only watched, remember?”

“I remember,” Lucien conceded, clinking his glass against hers. “You were always too wise for the rest of us.”

Jurian snorted, downing his wine in all one gulp, then reaching for the pitcher again. “And Varian was always reckless.”

Lucien leaned back in his chair, enjoying the cool breeze wafting in through the windows, though the heat of Summer was so relentless, the air so humid, that no number of iced beverages or sultry breezes could truly alleviate it. “Are you in much contact with him these days?”

Cresseida’s brows pinched together. “You already know the answer to that. He made his choice.”

“So he is still with the Night Court, then,” Vassa said. “Have they granted him an official title?”

“Dragon rider,” Jurian quipped, then laughed heartily when Vassa and Cresseida both scowled at him in disapproval. “What? It’s true. He’s there to service Amren, and for no other reason.” He tossed a pleading look at Lucien. “You know they’ll never trust him with matters of state.”

“I know,” Lucien said quietly. He knew he wouldn’t have been trusted, either, even if his hopes for his mate had come to fruition. He’d have spent his life under Rhys’s thumb, subject to Feyre’s whims, and all the casual disrespect and resentment of those courtiers. Perhaps Amren insisted on more respect for her chosen partner, but still, how did Varian stand it?

“Do you think they’ll send him to the summit to represent them?” Vassa asked, setting her own drink down and curling her hand around the armrest of her chair, the gold band of her engagement ring gleaming in the sunlight.

Lucien’s own metal eye clicked at it, and he shoved down the queasy jealousy that bubbled up inside him. He liked Jurian, both as a friend and as a consort for Vassa, and didn’t begrudge their union at all. He would not allow his love to curdle into madness, for he’d always known their time was limited. No faerie could be a suitable husband for her, for no faerie could rally her people or command her troops. And there was no point in wishing he was not faerie, for he could no more give that up than pluck out his remaining eye to make a matching set.

He would never wish that Vassa was not human, for he wouldn’t change a thing about her. She was human through and through, despite the strands of Koschei’s magic that lingered inside her. And not just any human either, but a queen who deserved to reclaim her realm. He could never ask her to give that up for his own selfish desires. They would have this one last interlude together, see justice done for the humans in Prythian, and then she and Jurian would be on their way, to fulfill the destiny that they couldn’t share with him.

“Varian was never much of a negotiator,” Cresseida was saying. “I won’t let them use him to sway us, just because he is family. As it is, we get the occasional letter from him, requesting a change in our trade policies, or asking for a deal on some commodity or other.”

“And let me guess, that request is denied,” Jurian chortled.

Cresseida’s lips pursed with displeasure. “Rhysand thinks he can use Varian as a backchannel, gaining concessions without actually offering anything substantial in return. Tarquin is always tempted, saying he’s family, but you know what I would say to that.”

“That if he truly valued his family, he wouldn’t have chosen that bloodthirsty basilisk over his court and people,” Vassa supplied.

“I knew you’d understand.” Cresseida and Vassa shared a look of solidarity, one ruler to another, before Cresseida continued. “To abandon us for a harpy who relentlessly insulted and degraded us and our ancestors, then stole our most priceless and sacred artifact — I still don’t know what he was thinking.”

“I do,” Jurian said, making a vulgar gesture that had Vassa hissing at him to be civil, and Lucien laughing that she might as well ask the ocean waves to stop churning. Jurian just grinned, fending off Vassa’s little slaps and scoldings, then went on, “You forget how well I knew them all, how we fought together in the first Great War. Amren has her charms, in a vicious sort of way. Varian’s not the first who’s noticed. But he may be the first who’s made a move on her, and survived the experience.”

“She’s relinquished all that power now,” Lucien said, “and rather grumpy about it, if memory serves me rightly.”

“Well, she can stew, with Varian and the rest of them,” Cresseida said sourly. “They failed to return the Book of Breathings after the War ended, or offer payment in exchange. Like we were just supposed to forget all about it.”

Jurian raised an eyebrow at that. “They did save your asses when this city was sacked.”

“They also sabotaged Spring’s defenses, giving Hybern a path right to us in the first place,” Cresseida pointed out. “And failed to warn us it was happening. We could have amassed our forces, even sent reinforcements to assist Tamlin. Instead, we were ambushed, and nearly overrun.”

Lucien cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction this conversation had taken. “I saw that Spring was on a knife’s edge, when I left,” he said quietly. “Feyre told me of the blood rubies against them, so I knew Rhys wouldn’t contact you directly. And Feyre wouldn’t have realized the danger, or thought to mention it. But I — I should have snuck word to you, warned you to look to your southern border.“

“Do not take that guilt upon yourself, Lucien,” Cresseida said sternly, leaning forward in her chair, her tightly woven silver locs spilling around her face with the movement. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for what happened. You were fighting for your own survival.”

And to go to my mate, he thought bitterly. What a fool’s errand that had been. He could have prevented so many deaths, so much destruction and heartache for his Summer friends, if he’d only stayed in Spring to help Tamlin. Why had he insisted he had to go along with Feyre? He’d barely gotten a single glimpse before she’d been whisked away, and perhaps that had been a mercy. Perhaps the Mother had realized then that a mistake had been made, and was trying to spare him any further heartache. He’d just been too stubborn, and too stretched by the mating bond, to read the signs correctly.

He turned to Cresseida, forcing a smile to his lips. “You are too kind, Cress.”

“I’m not. I just refuse to let the blame be shunted onto you, when there are others who have yet to be called to account,” Cresseida said. “But what’s done is done. We have endured. Let us turn our minds to more immediate topics. Do we have a finalized list of attendees for the summit?”

Lucien nodded, then tugged on a thread of his magic to produce the guest list from a pocket realm, his mechanical eye clicking over the list of names and titles. His attention strayed down the page, to where the Night Court was scrawled in, letting out a relieved breath when he saw Morrigan’s name, and no other. She could be difficult to deal with, as all of Rhys’s people were, but at least she wouldn’t start a brawl. And she wasn’t an Archeron, or one of their mates, which Lucien selfishly appreciated.

Then he realized that everyone was staring at him, waiting for him to speak, so he commented, “I suppose we’ll have to see if Day sends anyone. That’s the only court with no representative listed.”

Cresseida shrugged. “Helion was non-committal, when Tarquin approached him. He was loath to come, if certain people were in attendance.” She rolled her eyes. “Whatever feud is brewing between him and Eris, they would both do well to resolve it. We don’t need open conflict on top of everything else.”

“I don’t understand it. Eris is usually more careful and circumspect than to provoke a fight with another court for personal reasons,” Lucien said. His crafty brother had even allied with the Night Court, despite their open disdain and distrust of him.

“And we still don’t know what those reasons are?” Vassa asked. “You can’t broker a truce between them?”

“I would try. But I don’t know Helion well. I’ve only met him a handful of times, and only when we were all Under the Mountain. I have no idea what his motives are for hating my brother, or what he’d want out of a deal with Autumn. And Eris sure as hell isn’t going to listen to me,” Lucien scoffed.

“You got him to join the consortium,” Cresseida pointed out. “He basically gave up Autumn’s alliance with the Night Court to do it.”

“I think he was looking for an excuse to cut ties, honestly,” Lucien said. “He only approached them in the first place because wanted their help to overthrow our father.”

“Ha! He certainly didn’t need it,” Jurian said.

“He certainly didn’t,” Lucien agreed, smiling as he recalled the scene. Whatever Eris had done to coax the magic towards himself, or to steal it from Beron’s stranglehold, it had produced an unleashing of power like Lucien had never encountered. Seeing his asshole of a father writhing in agony, struck by Eris’s fiery whips of lightning, had felt like the sweetest, most hard-won vengeance. If it worried him at all that Eris wielded such concentrated power, that the new High Lord might have ambitions beyond Autumn’s borders, he tried to shove that out of his mind for the moment.

“You’ll survey the palace, inspect the wards?” Cresseida asked him, as though she’d been thinking along the same lines. “We can’t afford a scene like the last summit.”

He said, with more confidence than he felt, “This palace will be as a secure as a fortress. No brawling, no unleashing of power. No surprises of any kind.”

“Good luck with that last one,” Jurian snorted, and Vassa poked him indignantly. “What, like it isn’t true?” He flashed a roguish grin at Lucien. “Any time you lot all get together, something’s guaranteed to pop off.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Lucien gritted out, though of course Jurian wasn’t wrong.

Cresseida’s lips pursed tightly together. “We can't afford that kind of distraction. Tarquin really needs this to go well. His reforms haven’t gotten the support he was hoping for. But if his courtiers can see that the rest of Prythian endorses equality, that Summer would be the lone standout, they’re more likely to fall in line.”

“Will any of those courtiers be in attendance? We’ll make sure to keep an eye out,” Lucien offered. He could already guess which of Tarquin’s courtiers would be the most vocal opposition, the most snobbish against lesser fae and humans. He made a mental note to ensure they never got too near Vassa or Jurian, or Briar for that matter.

Vassa’s eyes grew fiery, and the air around her shimmered with heat, a phantom of the firebird wings she could produce on command, thanks to the lingering after-effects of Koschei’s magic. “Human equality is non-negotiable. We will not stand for anything less.”

Cresseida said carefully, “You will not have an argument there, not in principle. Not from anyone civilized, anyway. It’s the practical reality of what that looks like that needs to be worked out.”

“It shouldn’t have to look like anything,” Vassa said tightly. “Either we’re equal, or we aren’t. It should be obvious.”

“Whenever people live together, there are going to be issues,” Cresseida persisted. “Segregating the humans into their own areas has failed consistently. They feel hemmed in and limited, relegated to lesser status. But if they are to integrate, what then? Will there need to be seats reserved for them on the governing council? Funds earmarked for schools or work training? Where would that money come from?”

“With the new trade surpluses, that shouldn’t be so terrible a burden,” Lucien said hopefully.

“When people are recovering from war and occupation, they aren’t going to want the wealth spent on non-native citizens,” Cresseida fretted. “Especially if they’re… not High Fae. Even if there’s plenty for everyone.”

“Money should never be a problem for any court. You’re all sitting on centuries of wealth, even after Hybern’s plunder. Night is the worst offender of all, but Helion’s palaces are obscene and gaudy. And your court isn’t destitute, either. You could always pawn a few jewels from that hoard you’ve got, if it comes to that,” Jurian said tartly.

“There’s no market for jewels these days. The Night Court’s learned that the hard way,” Lucien reminded him, wishing Jurian’s irreverence for faerie traditions and relics wouldn’t be on such obvious display. After all the male had been through, he was well within his rights to disdain anything faerie, but it wasn’t exactly helping the cause. And how would Summer’s traditionalists feel about selling off its treasures to benefit humans, anyway?

He knew what Jurian would say to that, too. Those treasures were earned by the blood and sweat of human slaves. And he wouldn’t be wrong there, either.

“Wealth can be replenished, but there are other pressing concerns,” Cresseida went on, smoothly ignoring the provocation. “We’ll have to consider whether non-magic-bearing citizens require special protections, provisions in the law for if they are victims of crimes, or even the offenders. Our penalties for wrongdoers, for example. The current punishment for murder would exceed many human lifespans. But how can we have one set of laws for some subjects, and a more lenient set of laws for others? Would not that be insulting, or encourage them to be viewed as lesser?”

Lucien gently nudged a sullen Vassa with his elbow. “It’s worth considering all of it carefully,” he said. “If you ever have faerie subjects in Scythia, you might be dealing with many of the same questions, just in reverse.”

She sighed. “I know.” She inclined her head to Cresseida. “I appreciate your forthrightness. It is just… jarring, to hear one’s own legal status discussed, as though whether you deserve to have rights is in question.”

“That’s how it’s always been,” Jurian said darkly, lounging back a bit further in his chair. “And it’s foolish to think it’ll ever be otherwise. As long as they have powers, and we don’t, we’ll never be even. Look what happened after the last Treaty, when the Wall was up. Did that stop Hybern from plotting against us?”

“That’s why we need this summit,” Lucien said, seeing that all three of them were getting irritated. “To come to a formal agreement. If it’s ratified into law in Prythian, the force of magic will be behind it.”

“What of Hybern?” Jurian asked.

“All accounts are that they’re a disorganized mess,” Cresseida said. “The old King’s bloodline was extinguished, along with many of their noble families, during the War. The remaining fae houses are fighting amongst themselves.”

“It’s only been a decade or so. They could rise again, and want revenge on humankind more than ever,” Jurian said. “And if that happens, we’re right back where we started.”

It was a gloomy thought, as oppressive as the humid air that suddenly felt difficult to fully breathe in. But Lucien forced himself to say, “All the more reason the rest of us should be unified.”

Vassa took one last delicate sip of her drink, then set it down before proclaiming, “And that is why we must rest, and relax, so we’ll have energy for the hard work ahead. By your leave, High Lady, I think we should adjourn for a while. We can go over the final details when the High Lord returns.”

Cresseida rose, and they all stood up with her. “Of course. I’ll show you to your rooms.” And she strode towards the doorway, not bothering to check whether they were following.

Vassa looped one arm through Lucien’s, and the other through Jurian’s, and they strolled through the sunlit corridors of the palace together, nodding to the occasional courtier, the salt breeze in the air and the pounding of the ocean waves growing more insistent as they approached the guest wing, where all of the delegates would be staying. Their room was in one of the subterranean floors, where the clear class windows looked out upon coral reefs and seaweed gardens, so that it gave the illusion that they were immersed underwater, and had the added benefit of being always cool and pleasant even on sweltering days. Why any of Tarquin’s palace was aboveground, Lucien couldn’t imagine.

They thanked Cresseida, and retreated into the suite, Vassa immediately flinging off the tiara from her head, which she always complained dug into her scalp, and and collapsed down upon the bed — the very large bed, more than big enough for the three of them, so that they could bypass the question entirely of where each of them was supposed to sleep. That was one diplomatic nightmare they would be able to avoid, at least.

“I don’t know about you two, but I’m going swimming,” he declared, tugging at his thin shirt until it slipped off and fell to the floor, almost instantly vanishing from view. He frowned at the spot, for he’d seen no magic used.

Glamoured servants, then. He hadn’t realized the Summer Court was still doing that. It was bad form, considering what the summit was about. Even if lesser fae throughout Summer had been granted more rights, it seemed some traditions were harder to break. He’d have to mention that to Tarquin and Cresseida later.

“Thanks, friend,” he said to the empty air, and let a gold coin slip from his pocket. That, too, shimmered and then disappeared, like his gift had been received and accepted.

He finished changing into his swimming trunks rapidly, then turned to his friends. Jurian was lounging on one of the comfortable chairs, staring out at the ocean view, while Vassa was splayed out on the bed like she might fall asleep on the spot. He strode to her and kissed her brow, and she sighed and reached up for him, bringing him close so that she could kiss him softly.

“Well? Are you coming?” he asked, his voice quiet and hoarse. He was desperately trying to just enjoy the moment, and not think about it all ending. “You look like you could use a nap.”

“I don’t think I can handle any more heat,” Vassa complained.

“Scythia has deserts, you know. That’s plenty hot,” Jurian said.

“It is a dry heat. This is different,” she insisted.

“If you say so.”

“I do say so,” Vassa said irritably, then looked back up at Lucien. “Am I the only one who’s got a headache?”

Jurian chortled. “And the summit hasn’t even started yet.”

Lucien bit his lip to keep from chuckling, too. If he got through this summit with only a headache, he thought, he’d be lucky.

Chapter Text

Lucien went still as a sword jabbed at the hollow of his throat. “You’re captured. Put your hands up, and no sudden moves.” 

Lucien obediently held his hands up, suppressing the urge to grin as his captor poked the wooden blade imperiously in his direction, solemnly commanding, “On your knees, pirate.”

Lucien eased himself down to the warm, fine sand, relishing the way it squished against his bare legs and toes. Adriata had some of the best beaches, due to the churning of its waves that ground up the sand so finely that it became soft, but the waves were gentle at this time of year, perfect for even the most nervous swimmers. Or pirates, he thought, recalling the role he was meant to be playing.

He squinted up into the face of little Boreas, whose snow-pale cheeks were generously slathered with sun ointment that gave him an even more ghostly pallor. Viviane had even worked it into the boy’s hair, making the silvery strands stick up like spikes, almost like one of Kal’s icicle crowns. The effect was more comical than anything, but he would never dare say so to his companion.

Instead, Lucien made his face look suitably worried. “What are you going to do to me?” 

“What we always do to pirates,” Boreas proclaimed, his piercing eyes bright with amusement. “Make them walk their own plank!”

Lucien made his eyes go wide, his metal one clicking rapidly as though it, too, had decided to play along. “But-but there’s sharks in these waters!”

“You should’ve thought of that before, you wicked pirate. Now you’re going to pay for your crimes,” the boy said. “Anyone who does bad deeds should be punished.”

Lucien looked past him to his parents, who were watching the scene with bemused grins on their faces. “He’s very into the idea of justice,” Viviane offered, lounging under the large beach umbrella, her own face and limbs smeared with the same thick white cream that she was currently applying to Kallias’s back.

“I’m seeing that. It’s good,” Lucien said wryly, then inched back on the sand when Boreas’s toy sword jabbed forward at him. It wasn’t sharp enough to actually harm him, but he didn’t fancy picking splinters out of his skin. “I mean, it would be good, if I weren’t an evil pirate,” he amended, remembering that he ought to be in character.

“That’s right,” Boreas said, motioning with sandal-clad toes towards the sand. “Now you’re going to dig your own grave, and be quick about it.”

“Aren’t you a morbid little one,” Lucien remarked, but he was openly grinning now, and he winked at the boy before leaning down to scoop great handfuls of the sand. “Sure you don’t want to dig with me?”

“A High Lord’s heir isn’t supposed to dig in the ground,” Boreas said. “It’s undignified.”

“Perhaps, but it’s fun,” Lucien cajoled him, raising an eyebrow. Where had the little one learned to be so snobbish already? That was the sort of thing Eris was always spouting when Lucien had been a scamp of a youngling, and Lucien had always been keen to ignore him. “Are High Lords’ heirs not allowed to have fun?”

Boreas shook his head tightly, but cast a glance towards his parents, as though waiting to see if they had opinions on the matter.

“Who told you that? One of your tutors?” Kallias spoke up.

“Rhetor says I won’t be respected if I don’t act the part,” Boreas said.

Lucien heartily wished that Rhetor were present, so that he could be pushed head first into a sand dune, but chose not to say so. Respect in Prythian was based on magical might, not manners or morality. Many High Lords acted in ways that blatantly did not deserve respect, yet were powerful enough that no one dared say so.

“Rhetor simply meant that one should act dignified in formal settings. You’re here on vacation,” his father assured him. The little prince would be heading home after this evening’s festivities, so his parents could focus on the negotiations. Lucien rather envied him. The more he thought about the upcoming conference, the more his headache intensified.

“You can do anything you’d like to do, Boreas, as long as no one else is hurt by it,” Viviane added gently, lifting the brim of her floppy hat to get a better look at what they were doing. “Go on, play. Enjoy. Not all children are as lucky as you, to have this chance.”

Boreas looked frozen, his lower lip quivering, and then he pounced forward, plunging his hands into the pile of sand Lucien had been making, as though he was completing an important chore he’d forgotten about and needed to finish. Lucien’s heart ached at how unfair it was, both that so many Winter Court younglings had suffered, and that the legacy was still affecting their younglings now. Why should little boys like Boreas have to carry that weight, feel guilt for not having been slaughtered?

Boreas’s hands emerged from the sand, a layering of the fine particles coating his skin, adhering to the skin ointment. He frowned at them, complaining, “Now I’m all messy!”

Lucien cast about for a way to distract him. “Maybe you’re a scary sand monster?”

The boy’s pale face sprouted a victorious grin. “I am! And I’m gonna eat you, Uncle Lucien!” He sprang forward, plowing into Lucien’s chest, and Lucien went down laughing as sandy skin paste was smeared all over his chest, and his breath whooshed out in a rush from Boreas’s sudden weight.

“Gentle, Boreas,” Viviane scolded.

Lucien coughed, but managed a smile. “I think I — oof — preferred walking the plank. Being eaten hurts.”

Boreas beamed down at him. “Got you good, didn’t I? I’m strong!”

“That you are,” Lucien agreed heartily, lifting the boy off him and sitting up, brushing at his hair and swim trunks in a vain effort to remove the sand collected in them, only succeeding in smearing it across himself further. But he wouldn't worry about looking unkempt, for it would all come off in the ocean, anyway. “Do sand monsters like swimming?”

Boreas’s face fell. “I — don’t know how.”

“Oh?” Lucien looked towards the boy’s parents. Viviane had her lips pursed in concern, while Kal was making a cutting motion across his throat, and Lucien’s mind worked rapidly to figure out this mix of signals. Was the boy afraid of water? Or had his parents argued over letting him swim? “How about I fill up a bucket, you can test it out to see how it feels,” he suggested.

The boy shrugged, still less than enthusiastic, so Lucien added brightly, “It’s so salty, I bet you can’t freeze it!”

That snapped the boy out of it. “Bet I can! I can freeze anything!” And he swiped the empty bucket from the ground and dashed towards the ocean, squealing when a wave crashed on the shoreline near him, then darted out after it as soon as it retreated.

Viviane pushed up quickly. “I’m going to go watch him. He’s getting too close to the water’s edge.” And she gave Kallias a significant look, one that Lucien knew all too well, before striding after her son with nervous energy.

“Sorry I got you in trouble,” Lucien said.

Kal waved a hand. “She’s just anxious. You know how mothers are. They always want to keep their younglings close.”

In fact, Lucien’s own mother had been relieved whenever he scampered off into the woods, played in the streams or climbed trees in the forests, all the undignified exploits a hearty youngling got up to. He was safer out in the wild than he was at home, even when he came home bruised up or bloodied. At least those injuries were accidents, not maliciously given as punishment, and he’d usually been having fun when they happened.

Lucien flopped down under the beach umbrella next to Kallias, who was watching his mate and son with a wistful expression. “There were times I thought I’d never see the sunlight again,” he mused, “much less get to see her out in it.”

Lucien nodded sagely. “We’ve earned this reprieve, Kal. Your court more than anyone.”

Kallias sighed. “Don’t I know it.” He chuckled as Boreas came running up the sandy embankment, hollering, half of the water sloshing out of his bucket all over Viviane’s legs, and watched as the two of them laughed and went back to the water’s edge to collect more. “How did I get so gods-damned lucky?”

If only I knew. Fate was cruel like that — giving so generously to some, burdening others with endless traumas and hardships. Why couldn’t every child grow up in comfort and safety, like little Boreas? “You’re raising your son well,” Lucien said, willing his voice to stay steady.

“I hope so. He’s everything to us, and sometimes, I can’t look at him, or I feel like I’ll lose it,” Kallias said mournfully. “He’s ten, Lucien, just the age that those younglings were —“ He broke off, shaking his head. “What am I going to tell their families, when I return home again empty-handed?”

Lucien had no answer for that. Kallias had been trying unsuccessfully for years to get the other courts to formally condemn the Night Court, or Rhys personally, for committing war crimes against Prythian during the forty-nine years of Amarantha’s occupation. Even though many were sympathetic in private, no one wanted to risk publicly poking the hornet’s nest, bring down Rhys’s wrath on their heads. Freezing the Night Court out of trade deals was one thing, but outright declaring their High Lord a murderer was quite another.

“I’m not going to pretend I know what they’re feeling,” Lucien said, even though he thought he could understand, just a little. He knew what it was to mourn a loved one taken suddenly from him, to resent the sun for daring to shine when all he wanted was to curl up in darkness, to dread birthdays when she never got older and Solstices when her gifts sat unopened, to catch himself chuckling or enjoying a fine meal and immediately feel guilty, to worry that he was starting to forget what she looked like. “But I’d like to think they understand the reasons.”

“They understand that he’s gotten away with it. Not the massacre itself,” Kallias quickly clarified, seeing that Lucien was about to object. Everyone knew it had been Dagdan, the King of Hybern’s insufferable nephew, who’d committed the murders. Seeing him die had been grimly satisfying, all the more so because it would have been Lucien’s death otherwise. “But aiding her, collaborating with her, making her long reign possible. And he would do it all again, without hesitation, if we were conquered again tomorrow.”

“He couldn’t. Velaris is no longer a secret,” Lucien said.

“Who’s to say he hasn’t got other cities? Secret hoards stashed away in his mountains?” Kallias said sourly. “And if he doesn’t, if Velaris is truly the pinnacle of the Night Court, its vulnerability makes him more likely to betray us.” He waved a pale arm towards his wife and child, who were now taking turns trying to freeze the saltwater in the bucket, giggling. “He’d eagerly offer up my mate on a platter, my child along with her, if he thought it would give him leverage. Don’t try to deny it.”

“Rhys is relentlessly self interested,” Lucien agreed. “If he thought it would spare his own family, yes, he would do it.” He wondered, looking at Kallias, if his friend wouldn’t do the same — what wouldn’t he sacrifice to save Viviane and Boreas, if it came down to it? “But we aren’t convening to condemn him. This is about equality for the humans.”

Viviane turned and waved to them, then squealed at something behind them and ran forward, Boreas trailing confusedly after her. Kallias sighed, swiping a bit of excess sun ointment from his forearm, evidently accustomed to his wife’s exuberance. “I’m not going to ruin the summit. I promised Tarquin I wouldn’t harp on it. But I’m just going to mention it, put it out there, make sure everyone knows we’re not dropping the issue. I wouldn’t be able to face those grieving parents afterwards, if I didn’t.”

Lucien had no argument for that. He laid a hand on his friend’s arm. “We’re all behind you, Kallias.”

Boreas’s face poked underneath the beach umbrella. “Papa, Mama’s asking for you to come say hello. Her friend’s here.”

“Friend?” Kallias straightened, looking around for where Viviane had gotten off to.

“A Night Court princess,” Boreas said, his eyes wide. “At least, I think she’s a princess. She was very blond and sparkly.”

“Morrigan,” Lucien said, trying to suppress his annoyed reaction. He was always careful not to badmouth Viviane’s friend, regardless of how he felt about her or her court.

Kallias, however, was less circumspect. “Your mother knows how I feel about her,” he grumbled, but he started tugging his tunic on anyway, resigned to the fact that he would have to go interact. “I suppose she is the least bad of all of them.”

“She’s nice,” Lucien said diplomatically, eyeing the little prince. “Isn’t she, Boreas?”

Boreas nodded. “She and Mama are… very squeaky.”

Lucien couldn’t stop himself from laughing. That characterization was entirely too accurate. “I’m going to sit this one out, if you don’t mind.” He would have to interact with Morrigan plenty at the summit — was it too much to ask that he could spend the last few hours of respite, before all the hard work, not having to play pretend that he was happy to see her?

“Lucky,” Kallias murmured, then closed his eyes for a moment, growing a crown of glittering icicles around his head. Lucien had no idea how long they might withstand the Summer heat, but knew better than to question a High Lord’s magic. “All right, I’m going to make this quick. Help yourself to the snacks, old friend.”

Lucien examined his hands, which were covered in tiny grains of sand, and skin ointment and sweat, and decided that eating anything under the circumstances was ill-advised. Instead, he stretched his body out on the sand on his towel, content to let himself sink down, to let the earth hold him, to let the sun beat down on his face. Once he, too, had despaired of ever feeling the sun’s heat again, and a delicious sleepy warmth spread through him as he basked in its full radiance.

Then little Boreas was looming over him, poking his shoulder with a toe. “Uncle Lucien? Are you sleeping?”

Lucien quirked one eye open, then quickly shut it. “Why, yes. Yes, I am.”

The boy stood flummoxed for a moment, then nudged Lucien harder. “No, you’re not! You’re answering!”

“All right, you got me,” Lucien said, then groaned softly as he shoved up to a sitting position. Had he fallen asleep in the sun? He looked down at his skin, suddenly wondering if he ought to have slathered some of that skin ointment on himself, but if anything, he was only a darker bronze. “Where’s your parents?”

Boreas rolled his eyes. “Still talking to those ladies. Mama said I could go swimming, if you come with me. She trusts you.”

“All right,” Lucien said automatically, stretching out his legs before clambering to his feet, thinking that a dip in the sea would do him good, before it occurred to him to ask, “Ladies, as in more than one? I thought it was just the Night Court princess?”

“Mama said she’d tell you later.”

Ice slithered down Lucien’s spine, though none of his Winter Court companions had used any magic. There were only so many ladies that the Night Court could send, and if Viviane wanted to tell him later —

“Uncle Lucien?”

Lucien realized that he’d stopped walking, that he was standing on the beach staring out at nothing in the distance, that he’d stopped feeling the heat of the sun or the grainy sand between his toes. He was back on the lawn of a distance mansion, a river trickling past in the moonlight, a dagger desperately clutched between his fingers as he promised the Mother over and over that he’d never ask for one more thing, not ever…

No. She can’t be here. She hadn't been on the guest list. She wasn't expected.

But who else could it be?

He resisted the urge to twist towards the boardwalk, to look for the telltale golden curly hair. He couldn’t look, for what if he saw? What if it was her? What if it wasn’t? He didn’t know which option he feared more.

She’s nothing to me now, he tried to tell himself, repeating what he always said, any time regrets or memories threatened to overwhelm him. He told himself the bond was gone, like it had never even existed, that he was free to do as he liked without reference to her whatsoever. She had her world, and he had his, and he could live his life without her. Being in the same court with her, the same beach even, made no difference, none at all.

Who the hell am I fucking kidding?

How was he possibly meant to face her? How could they attend the same receptions and meetings without ever interacting? What if she avoided him, as she once had?

Let her, he decided. He had long since given up trying to understand, much less predict what she might decide to do. Let her act like the shrinking wallflower she’d been in the Night Court. It would be better than her pretending to be friendly. Maybe she’d find out he was here, and run screaming. Maybe that bat husband of hers would come scoop her up and carry her away.

Maybe she would try to talk to him, and he’d — what? Pretend he didn’t know who she was? Pretend he hadn’t struggled, that the rejected bond hadn’t ripped him open, that she meant no more to him than any other delegate he encountered? Would he talk to Elain Acheron about the weather, remark on the tasty refreshments, how lovely the sea was at this time of year?

He looked out at the expanse of ocean, sparkling in the late afternoon sunshine. It was lovely, stretching out languidly in every direction, far larger and deeper and mysterious than he could ever fathom. And somehow, that gave him comfort.

“Uncle Lucien?” Boreas asked. “Aren’t we going in?”

“Yes,” Lucien said, coaxing a smile to his lips as he looked down at his little friend. “Yes, I’m ready.”

Boreas’s slim hand slipped into his, and they strode towards the waves together.

Chapter Text

Lucien slipped back into the Summer palace, sweaty, salt-and-sand streaked, his heart pounding and mind buzzing. He was a little light-headed after a long afternoon in the sun, had probably not drunk enough water.

But he was fine — truly he was. He was not panicking, not losing it. He was just surprised, that was all.

Aside from the news that she was in Summer, he’d had a lovely afternoon. Being in the ocean had done him good, invigorated and refreshed him from the relentless heat, and Boreas’s imaginative games had kept him occupied, roughhousing with the little boy and laughing his troubles away. All he needed now was a good hot bath to wash the beach from between his toes, and a nap in a cool room, and a chilled drink and some decent food, and he’d be fine.

“Well, look who the waves washed back in,” Jurian drawled, giving him a slow nod as he came into the suite. “Did you drown? You sure look like it.”

Lucien grinned, despite himself. “And you look like you’ve been drinking all afternoon.”

“So what if I have? This stuff is good,” Jurian said breezily. He was sprawled out in one of the suite’s comfortable chairs, attired in lighter, looser, more casual clothing than the utilitarian military issue he usually favored, even having ditched his boots for sandals, and he was cradling a sparkly, bright blue drink in his hand, complete with fancy glass and fruit slice garnishing the edge. “This is my last time in Prythian for probably a good long while. Can’t I enjoy myself?”

“Sure,” Lucien said, slipping his own sandals off, then peeling off his tunic and folding it once before laying it on the back of a chair. He knew the glamoured servants would whisk it away, scour up the sand he was trailing on the floor, and he hated that he was making more work for them.

Jurian burst out laughing.

Lucien turned around, startled. “What’s so funny?”

“What’s so funny?” Jurian chortled, shoving up from his reclining position, the blue liquid sloshing dangerously as he plopped it down on the table. He pushed up to stand and strode towards Lucien, gesturing towards the blotchy white handprints that were plastered all over Lucien’s shoulders, back and torso. “You look like you were attacked by a very small yeti.”

“I was. And a sand monster,” Lucien said, rubbing halfheartedly at one of the handprints, knowing full well that if the ocean waves hadn’t washed it off, he would need actual soap to remove it. “Oh, and pirate hunters, I think.”

“Busy afternoon, then,” Jurian said, his eyes twinkling.

“A little too busy,” Lucien admitted. “But it was fun.” He thanked the Cauldron that Boreas had been there, actually. He couldn’t have handled Kal and Viviane’s solicitous concern, or anger on his behalf, not just then. He’d needed the distraction, and the reminder that the world went on quite apart from himself, and he might as well immerse himself in it.

Still, now that he was back at the palace, reality was starting to seep back in. He’d managed to avoid her out on the beach, but surely his luck would soon run out. Surely she’d be at tonight’s reception. And tomorrow’s meetings. And the day after…

The full implications crashed into him, what it meant for her to be here. The whispers of gossip that would follow him everywhere, the murmured questions, the pity and scorn. Any room he walked into would be full of solicitous or curious people, whose minds would be on his failed mating bond instead of the issues. At best, it would be a colossal distraction, even if he dodged dealing with her directly. At worst, there’d be a humiliating confrontation, disrupting the summit, and just when they needed everyone’s full concentration.

This is going to be a disaster.

He glanced around the suite, looking for Vassa, then blurted, “She’s here. In Summer. She’s going to attend the conference.”

Jurian’s eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. “You’re joking.”

“I wish.” Lucien’s legs suddenly felt like they wouldn’t hold him up anymore, and he quickly sank into a chair, waving away the half-full cup of blue alcohol that Jurian shoved at him. As much as he wanted to drown his sorrows, he had to keep his mind clear. “Kal and Viv saw her out with Morrigan.”

Jurian snorted. “That must’ve been interesting.”

“Probably. I’m glad I missed it,” Lucien said. Jurian slid the platter of tropical fruits, nuts, and chocolate across the table towards him, all Summer Court delicacies, and he started to reach for the food before remembering that his hands were still filthy. “I was a little busy fighting yetis and sand monsters.”

“Good choice. Much better than Morrigan’s bullshit,” Jurian said, snagging a slice of pineapple for himself. “Though without you there to talk him down, Kal probably lost it.”

“A little,” Lucien winced. Suddenly a damp washcloth materialized over his hands, and he rubbed the sand grains and skin ointment from his fingers, whispering a discreet thanks to the invisible friend who had brought it to him.

“You really can’t blame him,” Jurian was saying. “And better now than during the conference itself.”

“Oh, I don’t blame him at all. I just don’t know what it’s going to take to resolve that,” Lucien said, laying the washcloth across the armrest of his chair and then leaning forward to dig into the food. Chocolate was a real treat, made from special seed pods that grew in Summer’s highlands, painstakingly harvested and roasted and mixed, and he could eat far too much of it.

“An apology would be a start,” Jurian said.

“Anything short of Rhys’s head isn’t going to satisfy those grieving families.”

“You underestimate people. They’ll be practical, like we humans have had to be,” Jurian pointed out. “If we started demanding the blood of everyone who wronged us, the world would be painted in it.”

Lucien nodded, seeing the truth in this. “Morrigan can handle it. She and Viviane have managed to stay friendly, despite Kal’s misgivings. Maybe she can broker a solution. She’s the only one of his circle with any diplomatic skill.” He sighed, running a hand through the straggly strands of his unkempt hair, sighing at how undignified he must look. “Elain’s presence here is harder to understand.”

“Is it? I think it’s rather obvious.” Jurian gave him a long, searching look.

“You think they sent her to distract me,” Lucien said.

“I’d put nothing past Rhysand. He probably thought it a cunning move, shoving her in your path again. He’s trying to throw a wrench in the negotiations, or disrupt the conference entirely. Anything to disunite and distract us.”

It made sense, far too much sense to outright deny it, but Lucien made himself say, “It could just be that she was human, and it’s a summit about human issues. Maybe they thought she’d have some insight.”

Jurian scoffed at that. “That pampered, coddled little creature? I doubt it.”

Lucien bristled. Though he knew it was ridiculous, though she didn’t deserve it, his instinct was still to defend her. “The Archerons lived very near to the Wall. They starved. They suffered, both before and during the War.”

“That hardly makes them unique. And it was only for a few years, wasn’t it?” Jurian argued. “And didn’t Tamlin gift them a century’s worth of tithes to restore their fortune, and heal their sire?”

“Poor Leith,” Lucien murmured, recalling the fatherly male he’d come to know well. He’d been good company on their long journey north, a leader and an inspiration. To hear Feyre talk of him, he’d been a cripple and a dotard, a far cry from the sociable, clever deal-broker who’d parlayed with a death god and led armies into battle. And to be cut down before he could reunite with his daughters, or see the fruits of his efforts — it still made Lucien angry to think of.

Jurian shook his head. “My point is, Feyre Cursebreaker’s sister is hardly a practiced ambassador. She’s the least qualified of the three of them, and you know Feyre is no negotiator.”

Lucien rolled his eyes. He’d heard all about Feyre’s attempts to play diplomat and ruler. “Maybe she’s developed her skills?”

“Unlikely. We would have heard of it before this. She hasn’t left the Night Court, that’s for damn certain. And she’s shown no interest in human affairs in the decade since the war ended. I know that doesn’t sound like a long time to your ancient ears,” Jurian added, seeing Lucien’s incredulous expression, “but to most humans, that’s a significant chunk of their lives. What has she done in the last ten years, anyway?”

“Fuck if I know,” Lucien grumbled. “That was rather the point, wasn’t it? She didn’t want me to know.” The words jumbled up in his throat, constricting him, and he swallowed his bitterness down with a swig of water before continuing, “Whatever the reason, she’s here. Does it matter?”

“Does it matter,” Jurian spat. “Of course it fucking matters. Because if Rhysand thinks he’s being clever by sending her, if he thinks she’s going to tempt and distract you, we’ve got to send the message that it won’t fucking work.”

“Tempt me?” Lucien said incredulously.

“It wouldn’t be the first time he’s used an Archeron sister like that,” Jurian reminded him. “He did the same damn thing to your brother Eris, getting Nesta to seduce him."

Lucien crinkled his nose. That whole episode was highly distasteful, shameful really, to use his mate’s sister like that, but then again, this was Rhys they were talking about. “That didn’t work out, not in the long run. And Elain would not put herself in that position.”

He almost added that Elain’s husband would have had something to say about it, but then recollected that Nesta’s mate had been made to watch, probably jealous and infuriated, as she’d seduced Eris. The fact that Rhys didn’t respect his brothers any more than he respected Feyre’s sisters wasn’t exactly comforting, however.

“Her being here speaks for itself,” Jurian said. “Her sole use to Rhysand has always been keeping you reeled in.”

Lucien flushed. “We don’t know that —“

“We do. It’s literally all she’s ever done for him. She certainly isn’t a warrior, like the other females he adorns his court with,” Jurian insisted. “And as for her Cauldron-granted powers, we’d know if he had access to a Seer. His court wouldn’t be in such a shit position, if she were using her powers to benefit him.”

Lucien could see the sense in this, but felt obliged to argue, “That’s not necessarily true. Maybe her visions have prevented catastrophes. We’ll never know, because the worst didn’t happen.”

Jurian leaned back in his chair, propping his feet back up, crossing his arms across his chest. “If you’re about to give me some shit about how we’re living in the best world of all possible worlds, I’m going to toss you back in the ocean.”

“Cauldron, of course that’s not what I’m saying,” Lucien protested, holding up his hands, and his mechanical eye clicked, as though emphasizing the point. “I’m only saying we shouldn’t assume. We just don’t have the information.” And he certainly wasn’t about to go digging. Elain’s life was none of his business.

He stood up and moved towards Jurian, who was sullenly staring out the suite’s windows. “I’m not going to let anything derail this conference,” Lucien promised, yanking a chair closer so that he, too, could look out at the colorful fish darting around the coral reefs and long strands of seaweed undulating past them. “Whatever Rhys might be plotting, it’s not going to work. I promise.”

Jurian turned back towards him, regarding him with a solemn expression. “Good. Because we’re not going to let her so much as near you.”

“Who,” Vassa said, emerging into the bedroom doorway. She was gloriously disheveled from sleep, her red hair mussed about her neck and shoulders, and she shielded her eyes with her hand as she adjusted to the brighter light in the living room area. “Who will you not let near Lucien?”

“One guess,” Jurian said.

Vassa’s arm dropped. “What?”

Lucien was moving rapidly towards her. “I’m fine. I promise. I’m not going to let this bother me.“ He enfolded her in his arms, wanting to reassure her. “The bond’s not there. I don’t feel anything.”

“It should not have to be an issue,” she hissed. “There was a guest list for a reason.” She glared towards the hallway door. “Tarquin and Cresseida will hear about this.”

“I’m sure they already have,” Lucien assured her nervously, very much aware that the glamoured serving-folk scurrying silently about the guest suites were also the High Lord’s and Lady’s eyes and ears. “They probably just didn’t want to cause a diplomatic incident by refusing her entry.”

“Well, they’ve caused one now, because I am not putting up with this nonsense,” Vassa huffed, her body taking on a fiery glow, the remnant of her firebird magic rising to the surface. Lucien admired it, even as he prayed she wasn’t about to unleash it on their lovely guest room. “This is not to be borne, Lucien. Not after we worked so hard to make this summit happen. It’s going to disrupt everything.”

“It’ll disrupt things more if we make a scene. Then we’ll look like the unreasonable ones,” Jurian pointed out. Vassa scowled at him, but he persisted, “What do you think would have happened, if Miryam and I went at it, while everyone was just trying to win the War and sign a treaty? Some things are bigger than our personal grievances.”

“People like Rhysand don’t see it that way. Everything is personal to them,” Vassa said.

“Immortals,” Jurian rolled his eyes.

“When you have centuries to mourn what you’ve lost, you see things differently,” Lucien tried to explain.

“Well, I have had centuries. And I still think it’s fucking bullshit,” Jurian said, with unusual vehemence. “Rhysand would sacrifice the world for his chosen few. He’s already done it. He doesn’t give a shit about the humans. Mor and the little Archeron girl are only here because he needs something.”

“A conscience?” Lucien quipped, and Jurian chuckled.

But Vassa was not amused. “So you think Lucien should just put up with this?” she snapped. “After what she put him through? Don’t you remember —“

“Of course I remember,” Jurian said, throwing Lucien an apologetic look. They didn’t much reminisce about the dark days, when Lucien had struggled under the strain of the rejected bond, drowning his sorrows in too much drink and too little sustenance, barely dragging himself out of bed, wanting to throw himself off the nearest precipice rather than face an immortal lifetime of more suffering. Jurian had been there, along with Vassa, every step of the way as Lucien adjusted.

“I don’t want attention drawn to this,” Lucien said. “The last conference with all seven courts almost ended in disaster, because of Feyre and Tamlin arguing about their breakup.”

“Speaking of which,” Jurian said, “Tamlin is going to be fucking pissed about this.”

“Shit, you’re right. We’ve got to warn him,” Lucien said. “In fact, we’d better make sure Eris knows, too.”

Vassa stepped in front of him, hands on his shoulders. “You’re taking this far too calmly. Are you sure you’re okay with it?”

Lucien looked into her beautiful face, and leaned in to kiss away the worried frown on her lips. “I know you’re going to get me through it. Both of you, and our other friends too.”

Jurian stepped up alongside Vassa, . “You’re damn right. Actually,” he added, winking at Vassa, “that gives me an idea.”

“No. No ideas,” Lucien said automatically, but the two of them were giving each other one of those looks, a sure sign they were up to some trouble. He sighed, accepting another kiss from Vassa, before announcing he was going to wash the sand monster and yeti handprints from his skin, and the salt sheen out of his hair.

“Good idea. We need you looking your best,” Vassa declared, as he retreated into the bathing chamber, and cackled to Jurian, “That little minx is going to eat her heart out.”

Chapter Text

“Don’t you think a cape is too pretentious?” Lucien asked, frowning down at his reflection.

Jurian snorted in amusement. “This whole party’s going to be damned pretentious. And don’t act like you won’t enjoy it.”

Lucien couldn’t help but grin back at him. “You know me too well.” He would indeed enjoy the festivities immensely, if only to spite all those who’d rather he didn’t.

He smoothed out a wrinkle in the cape, deciding he would wear it. The dark blue material draped artfully around his light blue shirt and trousers, and the tiny five-pointed starfish that had been embroidered in gold thread caught the light just so. He’d probably have to abandon the cape once the room got too warm for so many layers, especially once he had a few drinks in him, but at least it would make for a decent entrance.

He turned to the side, critically examining the way the pants fit, then twisted experimentally, to be sure the ensemble would hold up when the dancing got going. Tarquin’s parties were always joyous affairs, with good food and better music, and the grand ballroom had an expansive dance floor that Lucien had made a fool of himself on in his younger and more carefree years, more than once, whenever he could get away with it. That was the advantage of being in public — even Beron Vanserra had to rein himself in, maintain some thin veneer of civility towards his family, and he might get drunk enough to forget his sons’ indiscretions by morning.

“Stop fussing. You’re almost as prissy as Eris,” Jurian scowled, even as he straightened his own collar. “You Vanserras and your pretty clothes.”

Lucien didn’t try to deny it. Taking pride in his appearance was the one Vanserra trait he’d never shaken. “I see you dressed up for the occasion.”

The general was attired in his usual uniform, utilitarian and no-nonsense, but he flashed his gold cufflinks in Lucien’s direction. “I look the part, don’t I?”

He did, which Lucien supposed was the point of it all. Jurian represented the common human, while Vassa was royalty, meant to interact with High Lords and Ladies as one of their number. It was an odd balance they’d struck, but they managed.

Still, it would be a quite different matter once they returned to the human realm, to regain Vassa’s throne, and Lucien often wondered how Jurian would adjust. “What do king consorts wear in Scythia?”

Jurian sighed, running a hand through his brown hair. “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

“That bad, huh.”

Jurian winced, opening his mouth as though to make some tart remark, but then his face went slack, and Lucien whirled around to see what had rendered him so speechless. “Vassa,” he breathed. “You look exquisite.”

Vassa smiled sweetly at them, stepping out of the bathing chamber arrayed in a shimmering gold gown that hugged her curves in all the right places, her hair loose and artfully arranged around her bronzed shoulders, her firebird wings fully out and glowing. Lucien would never get tired of seeing her this way, wielding the magic that she’d once been cursed with. Now she owned it, exhibited it to wondrous effect, and he knew all the fae in attendance would be entranced by it.

Vassa strode forward, primly kissing Lucien’s cheek, then held out her hands to Jurian. He took them, his eyes raking over her appreciatively, as she asked, “Did you get everything ready?”

“Yes, your Majesty,” Jurian said, deadpan, then flashed Lucien an enigmatic smile that surely meant all kinds of trouble.

Lucien had to laugh at their obvious machinations. Vassa had come into the bathing chamber with him, offering to help scrub the skin ointment handprints off his back and torso. He hadn’t been about to turn her down, of course, but he’d wondered if she was keeping him distracted while they hatched some plot for this evening’s festivities. Now he was sure of it.

“Do I want to know what everything means?” he couldn’t resist asking.

“Absolutely not,” Jurian chuckled.

“You’ll see when it’s time,” Vassa said, winking at him.

“Well, that’s not suspicious whatsoever,” Lucien murmured, leaning in to kiss her gently, mindful not to muss up her newly applied lipstick. “You’ve both quite convinced me I’ve nothing to worry about.”

“Good. Now let’s get moving. I want to get there while the party’s still going, and there are still drinks left,” Vassa proclaimed, looping her arm through his, then reaching for Jurian’s arm as well. “Everyone will be expecting us.”

That’s what I’m afraid of, Lucien almost answered.

But he only nodded, opening the door to their suite, and then they were strolling through the corridors together, strains of music extending out towards them even before the clamshell doors of the ballroom swung open, and the muffled sounds exploded into a vibrant cacophony.

“Oh, Tarquin has outdone himself,” Lucien declared, his mechanical eye clicking rapidly as he took in the expanse of the ballroom, the towering centerpieces spelled with water magic so that the live coral and seaweed could undulate with the music. “Cresseida, even more so,” he added as he took in the floors, the bioluminescent carpet sparkling turquoise around their shoes with every step they took forwards.

Vassa stepped up beside him, her wings glowing faintly, and then Jurian at her heels, a drink somehow already in his hand. It was a little early in the night for that, but Lucien wouldn’t begrudge his friend, not after five hundred years of forced abstinence. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like for Jurian, a human having to deal with faeries, who were once his sworn enemies and tormentors of his people, especially after all those centuries of witnessing horrors and wickedness while trapped on Amarantha’s finger. And he’d survived the depths of the Cauldron. Was there anyone alive who was stronger and more resilient? Lucien doubted it.

An awkward encounter in a ballroom was nothing in comparison to what they’d all suffered, and Lucien felt silly for even worrying about it.

Suddenly a flurry of movement caught his attention, and he turned towards one of the bubbling fountains scattered throughout the length of the ballroom, specially spelled columns for carrying guests down to the main level, and back up again. A figure was emerging from the farthest lift to them, and Lucien’s heart momentarily seized with anxiety when he realized who it was.

“Shit,” Jurian murmured. “Do you want us to deal with this?”

“No, it’s fine,” Lucien said quickly, then straightened his suit and let his cape unfurl around his shoulders. Might as well get this over with. 

Vassa’s hand curled more tightly around his arm, but he stepped forward, mustering all of the confidence and nonchalance that the situation required, and spoke in a clear, unwavering tone. “Killian.”

“Little Lucien,” his brother sneered, his stride slowing as he drew near to them. Lucien forced himself to look the male in the eye, despite the revulsion that lingered whenever he regarded his second-oldest brother. He was a more robust version of Beron, just as cruel and nasty, but less cultured and noble, a hunter and brawler. “Boy, are you in for a treat tonight.”

Lucien wrestled his panicked reaction under control. What could that mean?

But he only said, “If you’re leaving, then that’s all the treat I need.”

Killian’s heavy jaw clenched. “Always a delight to see you, brother.” His gaze flicked away from Lucien, but lingered over Vassa, whose fiery wings flared a bit brighter in annoyance. Jurian cleared his throat in warning, but Killian pretended not to notice, chuckling, “You ever want to feel real fire, sweetheart, you come to me.”

Lucien’s fists clenched, but Vassa gave his foolish brother a saccharine smile before cooing, “You big, tough male, I’d be surprised if you’ve got enough to light your own birthday candles.”

Jurian snickered, and Lucien bit the inside of his cheek to keep his composure.

The color drained from Killian’s already pale face, and he huffed in irritation before storming off past them, muttering about how Eris could run his own fucking errands from now on, and then, mercifully, he was gone. Lucien resisted the urge to shout after him to not come back, to leave the summit to decent folk who hadn’t helped commit murder.

“Still think Eris should’ve had him executed,” Jurian said in distaste.

Lucien rolled his eyes, not disagreeing. Killian more than deserved it, after what he’d done. “Eris only spared him because of Mother,” he said sourly. “She’s lost two sons already.”

“Two sons who hunted you down, and got what they deserved as a result of it,” Vassa pointed out. “And don’t go telling me they were just acting on your father’s orders.”

They hadn’t been -- they’d gleefully chased Lucien down, whooping and laughing until the very moment Tamlin had leaped out from the trees — but it was true, to a certain extent. Beron had issued many an order, during his too-long life, and they’d all been forced to comply, or they would suffer the punishment. And not just personally, but their mother would be punished, too, for raising such disobedient brats. Even their tutors and playmates weren’t safe, nor healers who dared to patch them up before they’d endured the full consequences of Beron’s displeasure.

Lucien’s shoulders slumped a little. He didn’t have the heart to relive all that horror, not tonight. “My brothers were innocent, once.”

And so Jesminda had been, even more so. His throat burned with the unfairness of it. She ought to be here, enjoying this party, not that killing his asshole brother would restore her to the life she’d missed out on.

And not that she would have been fit to be seen in these halls, by Summer Court decree and tradition.

Yet another reason this conference had to succeed, no matter who decided to make an appearance. He couldn’t let anything detract from that goal, not when there were so many other Jesmindas out there, human and lesser fae, depending on them to finally do the right thing, and protect them, give them the rights they always should have had to begin with.

Then the room rumbled, and from far below them, a muffled announcement signaled that the hosts of the ball had arrived. “Come on, let’s go down,” Lucien suggested, motioning towards the bubble lifts. Despite the anxious, cringing part of him that wanted to plunge into the ocean depths rather than deal with the drama waiting for him, he knew there was no point in delaying the inevitable. He wanted to get the awkwardness over with, that first moment where he’d have to see her, and then he could forget it all and enjoy himself. “Tarquin and Cresseida are here already.”

“Not just yet,” Vassa said slyly, pulling him back. “I’m thirsty.”

“I’m sure they have drinks down there, too,” Lucien protested, but she was already striding to the nearest table, snagging a sparkling sunset-colored drink and downing the contents, her wings briefly flaring golden as she did so.

“Magic,” Jurian grumbled, shaking his head at the spectacle, but then he was joining her at the table, plopping down in a chair and coaxing Vassa onto his lap, ducking deftly to avoid getting a mouthful of burning feathers.

“You’re stalling.” Lucien rolled his eyes at both of them.

Jurian raised his glass in a toast, as though in answer, definitely not denying it. Then he gulped down the same drink as Vassa, warily eyeing himself as though he, too, might turn colors. Thankfully, he didn’t. Humans were immune to the effects of such concoctions, having no magic inside of them to manipulate. “Don’t be a stick in the mud, join us.”

Lucien smiled indulgently at both of them, but the thought of ingesting anything made him faintly nauseous. “I’ll crush my cape.”

Jurian beckoned with his free hand. “Come here. I’ll crush it for you.”

Lucien was saved from having to come up with a snarky answer by the door to the ballroom banging open, a warm golden light bathing the room as the Day Court delegation entered, their High Lord in the lead, trailed by an entourage of both males and females, each more scantily clad than the next. One female, in particular, was wearing a dress that seemed to be made of nothing but a few strips of fabric and bubbles, in homage to the ballroom decor.

Vassa was up from Jurian’s lap, a broad grin on her beautiful face. “Spell-Cleaver!”

“Queen Vassa, my darling. Look at you,” Helion boomed, striding towards them, grasping Vassa’s hand and kissing it, just a bit more ardently than strictly necessary. Don’t be jealous, he’s just naturally flirty, Lucien scolded himself. “Those wings are truly spectacular. I’m so glad you kept them.”

“Thanks to you and your wonderful scholars,” Vassa gushed, discreetly withdrawing her hand, so she could tug Jurian up so he was on his feet. “The summoning spell you gave me works perfectly.”

“Of course it does,” Helion said airily. “It’s good for more than just fire, you know.” And he held out his broad hands again, a shimmering explosion of air bubbles emanating from them. The female in the bubble dress squealed and caught one, then saw Lucien looking at her and gave him a salacious wink that he quickly turned away from.

Jurian snorted. “You were always such a show-off, Helion.”

“I prefer to think of it as sharing. What good are gifts if you don’t use them?” Helion responded, giving him a snarky grin. It was as self-important as anything Eris or Rhys might say, but somehow, coming from Helion, it sounded less haughty and vicious. “I see you’re the same as ever, Jurian.”

Helion then extended his hand for the general to shake, and Lucien let out a small sigh of relief to see it. Whatever ill feelings there might have been against Jurian during the war with Hybern, most people had quickly come to realize that he was playing both sides, making the most of the shitty hand he’d been dealt. Apparently Helion didn’t hold it against him.

But when Helion’s eye rested on Lucien, his lip twisted into a grimace. “I see you’ve brought a Vanserra,” he said, his voice cold and hard.

“High Lord Helion.” Lucien kept his composure, but inside, he was cringing. He hadn’t seen Helion since the War ended, not that he’d seen much of the male any time before that, but his instincts had told him to steer clear, and now he was glad of it. He’d sat out Vassa’s journey to Day when Helion had invited her to visit, announcing in a flourish-filled letter that he’d found a way to break her curse. Lucien had made himself scarce, given the excuse of having emissary business with the seasonal courts, when in reality he’d wanted to avoid just this sort of unpleasantness. He’d known Helion hated Autumn, had a grudge with Beron for some reason, and had kept it going with Eris. Now he’d evidently decided it extended to every Vanserra, even an exiled one.

But Lucien’s avoidance was due to more than that personal distaste. Day was simply too close to the Night Court for comfort, both in geography and alliance. Helion was good friends with Rhys and his circle, good enough that they didn’t bother to use an emissary between them, and that closeness made Lucien nervous. He didn’t doubt Helion would head right for the Night Court delegation, maybe even flirt with Elain while he was at it, offer to bed her and Azriel together. The thought of that made his stomach twist.

The bond’s been rejected for years. You don’t care, he reminded himself sternly.

Vassa drew her wing around Lucien, pulling him closer, having noticed his discomfort. “Just call him Lucien, not Vanserra. He renounced that name a long time ago.”

Helion’s brows rose. “Is that so.” Now he was examining Lucien more forthrightly, as though really seeing him for the first time, his gaze lingering uncomfortably on Lucien’s ribs. Lucien’s panic spiked, for although he knew little of Day Court powers, he didn’t doubt that such powerful magic as a mating bond would be visible to the High Lord. A rejected bond, even.

He withstood the scrutiny with as much poise as he could muster, resisting the urge to draw his cape around his torso, as though that would do anything to hide the truth. He’d thought everyone in Prythian already knew, anyway.

As the uncomfortable silence lingered, Lucien’s mechanical eye clicked and buzzed, busy examining the various wards and spells lingering about the Day Court delegation. There was thick magic all about them, around the High Lord especially. Almost like he was hiding something.

“He’s too handsome to be a Vanserra, anyway,” the female in the bubbly dress said coyly, shattering the silence, and she patted one of the bubbles adorning her shoulders, flashing Lucien another flirty grin that he did not return. “He could almost be your cousin, Helion.”

“Perse, please,” Helion said, gritting his teeth in displeasure, as though she’d cursed him, or insulted him gravely.

Lucien cleared his throat uncomfortably, wondering whether Perse was one of Helion’s many lovers, or just angling to be one. There were not many faeries Helion hadn’t dallied with. Lucien didn’t mind a bit of fun and pleasure, himself, but he preferred a little mystery and romance with his dalliances, and wouldn’t indulge at all while he was still with Vassa.

Whether another female’s presence at the gala played into his reluctance, as well, he refused to think about. He’d denied himself many things for Elain Archeron’s sake, and that was well and truly done with.

“I believe the festivities are just getting started, with Tarquin and Cresseida’s arrival. We should probably head down there,” he suggested.

“You all should go on ahead. Make an entrance,” Vassa suggested to Helion, rustling her wing around Lucien, warning him not to object.

Helion gave her a flirtatious wink. “I think it’s you who will make an entrance. You outshine the brightest stars, dear firebird.”

Lucien didn’t dare look at Vassa, certain that he would double over with laughter if he saw her reaction, but stared straight ahead, attempting to take this strange conversation in stride. But Jurian said dryly, “She’s going to roast you, if you don’t get going.”

A few of Helion’s entourage looked shocked, but Helion just laughed, tossing out, “I like a female with a little fire,” then strode off towards the nearest column of bubbles, his delegates trailing behind him.

Lucien whooshed out a relieved breath when they’d all disappeared, then turned to Vassa with a mischievous wink. “I don’t think I’ve given you any outlandish compliments yet this evening. Allow me to rectify that situation, my dear firebird —“

“Oh, stop, you rogue,” Vassa scowled, swatting at him. He laughed, always enjoying it when she chastised him. “Helion is an impossible flirt. We all know it.”

“You really could pass for his cousin, you know,” Jurian piped up, “if you took away the red hair, darkened your skin a little.”

“Are you saying all High Fae look alike?” Lucien teased him, knowing how faeries tended to say the same about humans. He’d even once thought so, himself, back when the only humans he’d seen had been in the pages of dusty old history books, and on the mural at the Spring Court manor. He’d once believed many silly things about humans, all of which he’d been resoundingly corrected on, through hard-won experience.

“There is no one like you, and you damn well know it,” Vassa said.

Lucien grinned down at her, his heart warming at the compliment, but he said, “You’re my friend, you have to say that.” Friend was too casual a term for what Vassa meant to him, for what she and Jurian both meant in their different ways. Friends, confidants, saviors, the list went on.

“I am a queen. I don’t have to do anything,” Vassa declared, poking a finger at him. He nipped at it with his teeth, then snagged her hand so that he could kiss it suggestively. She made a little noise, making it clear how much she still enjoyed his attention, then asked, “Why did you let Helion talk to you like that?”

Lucien shrugged one shoulder. “What’s the point of pissing him off further? He hates me already, no need to add to it.”

“He doesn’t hate you, he hates your family,” Jurian said. “In fact, you have that in common. You ought to get along swimmingly.”

“That is not how it works, unfortunately,” Lucien said.

“It was unnecessary for him to be so unkind. You didn’t choose who you were born to, who raised you,” Vassa chimed in. “You chose to renounce them, and follow your heart.”

And paid the price for it, Lucien thought bitterly. Following his heart usually led to pain and ruin.

“It doesn’t matter,” he declared, with more conviction than he felt. “I don’t care what Helion thinks. He’s friends with Rhys, that’s all you need to know about his preferences.”

“They share a border. It’s only prudent of him to keep good relations up,” Vassa pointed out. “He really is nice, when you get to know him.”

Lucien didn’t dare point out that of course Helion would be nice to Vassa, an insanely attractive female he surely wanted to seduce. “If he’s nice to you, that’s enough for me.” 

He grabbed a drink from the table, swigging it, relishing how the alcohol burned down his throat, and felt his magic flaring as the first drops hit his stomach, soft yellow light briefly flashing in the corners of his vision. A gentle, welcome warmth suffused him, tingling at his fingertips.

“Whoa, you might want to slow down with that,” Jurian chortled, motioning to the window, where sparkling fish were pressing their little mouths up against the glass, as though they were attracted by the sudden glow. “You just went off like a fucking beacon.”

Lucien put the glass down, frowning at the odd way his magic had reacted. He’d expected something a little more fiery. Perhaps Cresseida was trying out some new spell that picked up on the magic in the room? Had that brief interaction with Helion done something?

“Just bracing myself for going down there,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant and probably failing.

“It’s going to be fine,” Vassa said firmly, clasping his shoulders. “We told you, everything’s taken care of.”

Lucien’s mind struggled to comprehend what that could mean. Taken care of sounded ominous, threatening even. And what did he even want to happen, if he had a choice in the matter?

“How did you do it,” he asked Jurian, “you and Miryam? Seeing each other again, after all that time?”

Jurian frowned, uncharacteristically quiet for long moments. “I just told myself I had to do it. For closure, so I could move on fully. I wanted to see her with Drakon, just to see that she was happy, and then let it go. Like putting the period at the end of a sentence.” He looked at Vassa, something like hunger in his gaze. “I got a second chance at life. I wasn’t going to waste it endlessly regretting what could have been.”

Lucien wondered if Jurian and Miryam ever could have been happy, if things had worked out differently during the war, if Jurian had never tangled with Amarantha’s sister. Would Miryam have rejected the bond with Drakon to stay with Jurian, even though as a demi-fae, she would never be accepted by human society, nor her children?

Vassa was looking contemplatively at Jurian, her own eyes sparkling, and an odd sense of calm settled over Lucien to see it. Maybe in the past he would have been irritable or jealous to see their relationship growing in intensity, but he wanted them to be together, wanted them to make each other happy. Jurian was right — there was no point in having regrets. Lucien had cheated death so many times, had gotten so many second chances, that any love or happiness he got now was a bonus.

Both of his friends were focused back on him, now, regarding him with solemn expressions. “Are you still worried about seeing Elain?” Vassa asked gently.

“Yes, I’m worried,” he admitted. Why deny it?

What if I really can’t handle it?

He’d managed to make a life for himself without Elain, without the Night Court, but what if the loss overwhelmed him? What if all that progress had just been avoidance? What if he fell apart all over again?

He knew his friends wouldn’t let it happen, that they’d find a way to make it better, but he also knew that they had to move on with their lives. Vassa couldn’t delay her departure to Scythia forever, and although both Vassa and Jurian had been touched by magic, and perhaps would live as long as Miryam, they didn’t know that for certain.

They were both watching him carefully now, and he stammered, “I really don’t want to ruin the summit for everyone.”

“You won’t ruin anything. It’s going to be awkward, but you won’t be alone,” Vassa said, tenderly brushing a stray lock of hair back from his face. He let the touch ground him, focused on the heat of her fingers, the understanding in her eyes. “You know everyone in that room supports you.”

Lucien looked into her beautiful face, grateful beyond measure, then at Jurian, who was nodding in agreement. “I know.”

“Then let’s go down there, and make our entrance,” Vassa said, leaning in to brush a kiss across his scars, before threading her arm through Jurian’s, and the other through Lucien’s, and they strolled towards the bubbles together.

Chapter Text

Lucien’s heart pounded as the bubbles engulfed his vision, plunging him downward towards the lower ballroom, gently tickling and cascading around him. Vassa’s wings sizzled on contact with the water, sending rivulets of steam hissing upwards, and Lucien threw an air shield around them, smiling nervously when she turned towards him to give him a nod of thanks.

Don’t be nervous. Your friends are with you.

The echoes of voices and drinks and music swelled stridently as they got lower, exploding into their full joyous fervor when they stepped forward. It was all so festive, so lively and insistent, that Lucien was overwhelmed by it. His own thunderous heartbeat pulsed in his ears, so he heard little of the announcer’s call or the wave of whispers and gossip that engulfed the ballroom, from the sea of shining, curious faces all gawking at them. The party was in full swing already — surely they were the last to arrive. Had that been Jurian and Vassa’s plan? What other surprises had they concocted?

Vassa’s hand squeezed his arm, and his body began taking steps, his courtier’s instincts taking over even as his mind raced, trying to process it all, his confused feelings most of all. Normally he would enjoy a big gathering, seizing any opportunity to mingle and catch up with old friends, strengthen diplomatic connections and indulge in good food and wine and music. But this was no normal gathering, not if she was here.

He didn’t dare scan the crowd for her, didn’t let himself wonder where she might be or what she might think of seeing him now. That path would only lead his thoughts to dark places, to unhappy memories of long nights of awkward silences and shrinking avoidance, to that last night he’d stood trembling on her family’s front lawn while she embraced her lover in full view at the window. He shoved all that firmly out of his mind, determined that nothing would spoil this evening, that whatever recollections he had of his mate and her rejection did not belong in this hall.

The High Lord and Lady of Summer were approaching, glimmering turquoise and silver, and he focused on them, determined to start this summit off properly, by escorting two humans into the heart of the ballroom like the honored and distinguished guests that they were. And Tarquin and Cresseida both acted accordingly, extending welcome to Vassa and also to Jurian, greeting them first as protocol required, showing as much deference as a High Lord and Lady ever would. This gesture would set the proper tone, establish a precedent for all others to follow, and Lucien’s heart warmed at being privileged to witness and be part of it. It was the first step towards full equality, towards righting centuries of wrongs. Finally, finally, it was happening.

He was so thrilled at it, so overcome by relief and gratitude and sorrow, that he didn’t bow or shake hands with Tarquin, but threw his arms around the High Lord instead, protocol be damned, grinning like an idiot all the while. “I will never, ever forget this,” he said hoarsely, his mechanical eye clicking rapidly as Tarquin chuckled softly and embraced him in return.

“Hush, Lucien, don’t trouble yourself,” Tarquin scolded him gently, “we’re only doing what should always have been done. There is no special honor in that.”

“Perhaps, but you are actually doing it. You know what that means to me. To us,” Lucien said, pulling back to look into Tarquin’s kind face, silently thanking the Cauldron for him. High Lords were so often relentlessly selfish, drunk on their own power, and that made them woefully oblivious, if not outright cruel and vicious. It was a miracle that it had chosen as wisely as Tarquin.

“Then perhaps you will reconsider our offer,” Tarquin said, smoothly moving aside so that Cresseida could come forward, and then Lucien was hugging her as well, fingering the edges of Cresseida’s chiffon cape, which draped about her torso like one of the ethereal but deadly stinging jellyfish that flitted about her ocean waters. It was a perfect costume for the fierce female, who’d earned her High Lady title many times over, over decades and centuries. She was dressed like a glamorous and elegant lady, not a warrior, but he knew that steadfast spirit that had defended Summer for fifty long years still resided firmly inside her. She didn’t need to wield a blade to be utterly lethal. If anything, it made her more terrifying. “Cress, you look marvelous,” he exclaimed.

“So do you. Very dapper,” she said, then added in a lower voice, “and don’t go changing the subject. You know our court is always open to you. Just — think about it.”

“Thank you,” Lucien said, his eye clicking, registering that many others were approaching, and not wanting to hurt their feelings or commit to anything he wasn’t ready for. He’d barely had time to think about where he would go once Vassa and Jurian departed for Scythia. It was too important a decision to take lightly, or impulsively, which was how he’d always done things. He was trying to slow down for once, actually think through the options.

Perhaps Summer was the best choice, for then he could follow up on the conference’s gains, help Tarquin and Cress wrangle their recalcitrant courtiers, some of whom were glowering in their direction from the sidelines, pointedly not approaching to greet the humans. It deflated Lucien’s exuberance somewhat, but he knew he shouldn’t have expected any different. He’d dealt with the hardliners Cato and Marcus, even brash Catalinus, and knew they had opposed all of Tarquin’s reforms, especially the appointment of a High Lady, as being against the Cauldron-granted order of things. Of course they would oppose humans demanding respect and influence.

A heavy arm clamped around his shoulders, and he turned fractionally, though the sudden crisp chill in the air had already alerted him to who it was. “Don’t forget about us,” Kal chided him. “We’re in great need of an emissary, especially one with your skill with younglings.”

Lucien grinned, recalling his outing on the beach that afternoon. “Is Boreas already back home?”

“As planned, yes. He’s staying with my cousins.”

“Well, that should cheer him up. He loves Njord and Skadi,” Lucien said hopefully, recalling the rosy-cheeked, good-natured friends he’d gone skiing and ice-fishing with on his trips to Winter. Kal had been just one of the gaggle of cousins then, not particularly marked out for power, but fate had intervened in the form of Amarantha, slaughtering his father and all three of his brothers when she’d come to power. And although Rhys had not directly caused those deaths, he had lorded it over Kallias afterwards, praising the deed and laughing derisively whenever Amarantha bragged about it. Forty nine years later, he claimed he’d been acting, and expected Kallias to forget all about it — like that was going to fucking happen.

“They’ve promised to give Boreas a proper vacation. But he was still very disappointed to have to leave so soon,” Kal said.

“Indeed. Poor boy, he was pouting like anything,” Viviane declared, swooping in to kiss Lucien’s cheek, then moving aside so her sister could do the same. “Isn’t that right, Cyane?”

“I’m surprised the whole palace didn’t hear him whining. But I want to stay with Uncle Lucien,” Cyane mimicked, her ice-blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “You always make quite an impression on him, whenever he sees you.”

“It’s not about me, not really. It’s the sandcastles and snow forts, playing pretend. He likes to be active, in mind and body,” Lucien chuckled. He knew he indulged the child, but why shouldn’t he, when the boy’s days were filled with stuffy tutoring sessions and combat practice with dull wooden weapons? One day he’d take Boreas to Autumn, now that he could safely step foot there, so that the boy could learn to pitch a proper campsite and catch fish in the streams with his hands. “He likes when I tell him to ignore his tutors, and run wild instead. I’m a terrible influence, really.”

“Not so terrible. It’s good for him, when everyone else is so proper with him, or treats him like he’s a little snowflake, fleeting and delicate. You know how it is in Winter these days, with us and our younglings,” Viviane said, a brief flicker of sadness crossing her features.

Lucien did happen to think the boy could benefit from a little less careful handling, but what did he know? His own upbringing had been so painful, so fraught and full of danger, that he would jumped at the chance to live like Boreas, cherished and cared for by both his parents, who also loved and respected each other. Lucien wouldn’t have been himself, exactly, but he thought he would have been happier.

He gave Viviane a patient smile. “It’s understandable that you’re cautious,” he reassured her. “Boreas is a fine young fellow, getting the best care of any child in Prythian. You’re far too hard on yourselves. You’re even worried about being worried.”

Viviane’s eyes brightened with amusement. “Well, when you put it like that, I can’t help but agree.”

“You really ought to come back with us, Lucien,” Cyane said, flicking her pin-straight silvery-white hair behind her shoulders, freeing it from the spiky icicle-shaped accents on her dress. “You’ve been very unkind, staying away so much. You missed this year’s Solstice, and everything.”

Lucien opened his mouth to make an excuse, to explain that he was helping set up this summit and hadn’t meant to slight the Winter Court whatsoever, but just then they were interrupted by more guests crowding close in, and he was obliged to greet them all. There were Cresseida’s recalcitrant courtiers, approaching him now that he wasn’t standing right next to the humans they so looked down upon, and members of Helion’s entourage who apparently didn’t share their High Lord’s distaste towards Vanserras, and even a few less obnoxious members of Eris’s entourage, who assured him that his brother had stepped out just for a moment and had no intention of snubbing the human delegation.

For long moments it was all he could do to keep up with the throng, to exchange friendly greetings, reaching for names and details about the folk he encountered, introducing a few to Vassa whom she hadn’t met previously. She received all their fawning greetings with smiles and pretty words, slipping into her role as queen with no hesitation, and Lucien was content to stand next to her, watching her dazzle and charm all Prythian. He hoped she would have just as much success charming her own people.

He caught Jurian’s eye, and the general grinned from his position stoic by Vassa’s side, weathering the onslaught with his usual bemused detachment. Jurian knew these people almost as well as Lucien did, in a way even better, for he had seen many of them Under the Mountain during the long years of Lucien’s reprieve. He’d seen how they’d placated or avoided Amarantha, what betrayals they would stoop to in order to save their own skins, how far they would risk themselves for what they believed in. Who, exactly, could and couldn’t be trusted.

Tamlin’s hand came down on his shoulder, and Lucien was jolted out of his reverie. “There you are, old friend. You cleaned up nicely.”

A roaring laugh slipped out of Lucien before he could contain it. Even after all his efforts, all the coaching and encouragement he’d given, Tamlin’s compliments still needed work. Lucien still relished the memory of human Feyre’s scowling face turning to confusion as Tamlin had fumbled towards trying to woo her. Lucien had never thought he’d miss anything about the long years of Amarantha’s reign, but the raw and scrappy human Feyre was back then had been so sharp, so delightful.

He had no idea who Feyre had become over these past ten years. Was she still the impulsively vicious, shrewd huntress-turned-vixen she’d been in the lead up to war? Or more likely she’d leaned into her High Lady position, the very caricature of what she’d once sneered at — a docile, well-kept High Lord’s wife, blithely going about her days unbothered by the struggles of the people she supposedly governed, bearing heirs and painting her pictures and posing prettily at her husband’s side when occasion required. And perhaps that was better, for she could be insufferably sanctimonious when she did pay attention, weighing in with great authority on topics she'd learned nothing about, parroting whatever lines Rhys fed to her.

Either way, Lucien missed Feyre’s determination, her hunger, her sense of justice, her human spirit. He knew Tamlin missed it too, and blamed himself that she’d lost all that under his watch, so much that he’d almost torn himself apart with regrets.

Yet here Tamlin was, smiling softly, a new light in his eyes, and one cause of that fresh happiness stood right behind them. Another human, this one dressed in a soft pink gown, but no less strong and fierce than a warrior. This summit was only happening in large part due to Briar’s quiet persistence, her determination that all humans should be uplifted, when she herself had comfort and plenty.

“I suppose I do clean up all right, as you so poetically put it. But your sweetheart is truly lovely,” Lucien said, giving Tamlin a knowing wink. “Staying in Spring clearly agrees with her. Have you started to formally court her yet?”

Tamlin regarded him with fond exasperation. “I do not wish to push her too fast.” But he glanced back at Briar, who was busy talking animatedly to Viviane like they hadn’t just seen each other a few weeks prior, and then turned back to Lucien, his demeanor relaxing. It made him look almost young and unburdened, like he’d sloughed off the past ten years of despair and self-loathing, and the fifty years of anxious terror and impotent fury before that. “She is special, Lucien. So much more than I could ever deserve. How did I get so gods-damned lucky?”

Vassa strode up to them at that moment, curling her arm through Lucien’s, and he very much wondered the same thing about himself. Lucky was too weak of a word, he decided, as he looked down into her brilliantly sparkling eyes, and saw the affection and mischief in them. “You and Jurian planned that flashy entrance, didn’t you,” he chided her. “You’ve upstaged everyone, even our hosts.”

“They knew all about it,” Vassa said, unrepentant. “They didn’t mind whatsoever.”

Tamlin nodded to some people behind them, and Lucien grinned broadly when he saw who it was. “Bron! And Hart,” he greeted them, surprised and happy to see them with Tamlin. They’d been among the first sentries to defect, and among the last to return, having been disgusted by Tamlin’s seeming support of Hybern and his weakness under Ianthe’s influence. Lucien couldn’t blame them — he’d been disgusted too. And that was before she’d trapped him that day in the forest.

Don’t think about that fucking bitch, she got what she deserved in the end, he told himself firmly, shoving the wave of revulsion back down.

Bron gave Vassa a respectful bow, with Hart following suit, then turned to Lucien with a formal nod. “Emissary. It’s good to see you.”

You left suddenly, and they thought you and Feyre were cheating, it’s going to take time for trust to regrow, he reminded himself.

“None of this emissary nonsense, it’s just plain Lucien. And it’s good to see you too, you rascal.” He scanned the group of Spring Court delegates, rapidly noting who was present, then added, “I’m surprised you didn’t bring Willow with you.”

Bron’s tight smile relaxed into something more genuine. “Have you not heard? She is with child. Due any day now.”

“Is that so? Truly? Why, Bron,” Lucien exclaimed, “that’s wonderful news.” He looked to Hart, who was also beaming. “Your first niece or nephew, is it?”

Hart nodded, looking extremely pleased, especially as Bron said, “If it’s a boy, we’re calling him Andras.”

Lucien’s words were all jumbled up on his tongue, his heart too full, and Vassa squeezed his arm, knowing how touched he would be by the honor to Andras. Finally, he managed to sputter, “Well, that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.” He looked to Tamlin, who looked similarly affected, though he was straining to stay stoic, then back at the two males, who were both smiling broadly now. “And how’s life treating you all at the manor? Keeping you busy?”

“Monstrously busy. We’ve had two good harvests back to back, and you know that means lots of comings and goings, protecting the cargo that’s being shipped out. But patrols have been mostly quiet,” Hart said. “We’ve brought on lots of new folk as sentries, and trained them up proper. We’re almost back to a full complement.”

Almost. Even after ten years, the recovery effort was still ongoing. They’d lost too many good friends, to Amarantha’s curse, the War and the exodus. It was both a comfort and a misery to know that they couldn’t be replaced.

But Lucien tried to put on a positive face, show them that their efforts were appreciated. “You’ve done a fine job, then. And Duncan and Marlow, are they still at the manor?”

“Aye, Duncan is. Good lad,” Hart said stoutly, clearly proud of the trainee he’d taken in as a ward, after the poor boy’s father had been killed in a naga attack, and his mother had died from the grief of losing her mate. “He’s conducting the training sessions this week, in our absence.”

“And Marlow’s off to become a sailor,” Bron said. “That one’s your fault, you know. With you gallivanting off to other courts and far off realms, coming back with your tales of travel, never settling down anywhere, you’ve given him notions.”

Lucien accepted this good-natured rebuke without complaint. Although he always had reasons, he did set a remarkably poor example, flitting from one court to another, perennially rootless. And he’d shoved off from Spring impulsively, bidding no one goodbye, leaving the place in horrid disarray. He knew some folk still resented him for it.

But to his surprise, Tamlin came to his defense. “Perhaps we could all do with broadening our horizons.”

Lucien’s mechanical eye clicked as it took in Tamlin’s earnest expression. He really does forgive me, then, for leaving him.

Bron leaned in closer, murmuring, “Do you ever see — her? In all your travels?”

Lucien blinked, momentarily speechless, not expecting to be asked this question when everyone else seemed invested in avoiding the topic. He quashed the temptation to scan the room for Elain, if only to know which place to avoid looking.

But Hart snarled, “She sent her sister here tonight. Couldn’t even be arsed to come herself, and face us.” His rugged jaw was clenched tightly, and he spit out the words as though they tasted foul. “Cursebreaker, we called her. More like Curse-bringer.”

Lucien took a breath. They meant Feyre, not Elain.

Of course — neither of them had met Elain, or expected anything from her. But they’d admired Feyre, loved her, felt more loyal to her than to Tamlin, and she’d used them for her own schemes and then abandoned them without a backwards glance, had probably never spared them a single recollection in all the years since.

“I haven’t seen her for almost a decade,” he said, an utterly inadequate characterization of how completely he’d cut out Feyre from his life. He knew she’d sent letters, now and again, when whatever vestige of conscience she still possessed pricked at her, or when the Night Court needed something, probably. He’d always thrown the parchments away unopened, having no interest in peeling back the scab on that wound. “That era is well and truly over.”

“Aye,” Bron grimaced, shaking his head, “there’s naught to do now but forget her.”

Easier said than done. Cauldron damn him, he’d certainly tried.

Tamlin was bearing the conversation with quiet fortitude, a glimmer of pain lingering in his eyes, so Lucien simply nodded his agreement, rather than prolong the unpleasant topic further.

Then there was a glint of silver in the corner of his vision, and he turned towards it. The silver object moved and shifted, and he broke out into a radiant smile when he realized he recognized its owner. “Nuan!”

“Lucien Vanserra, let me see you,” Nuan commanded, striding forward, her silver dress shining with iridescent scales, each of which was humming faintly with power. He didn’t doubt the entire outfit was fully functional, capable of some mechanical feat, but had no time to marvel at her endless ingenuity before she was embracing him. He returned the hug enthusiastically, thrilled to see her out of her workshop, and when there was no wound for her to fix up, and no war-errand that needed doing.

Then he looked past Nuan to her entourage, smiling brightly at him. There was Thesan’s top healer Eos, a vision in satin and ruffles quite different from her usual robes, and his trusted guard Phainon, both of whom Lucien had gotten well acquainted with when he’d been convalescing after his eye implant. It was lovely to see them when he wasn’t out of his mind in pain, or sluggish and slurring his words from painkillers.

Then he perceived a rustling of feathers, and he had to blink several times, confirming that he wasn’t imagining it. “Cauldron! You’ve brought Vesper,” he said in wonder, waving enthusiastically at the peregryn, who returned the gesture with one arm, the other slung around Phainon’s waist. The sight of a so-called lesser fae in the Summer Court ballroom, openly flaunting his wings, and with a High Fae companion, was almost too startling to be believed.

“Thesan was hesitant, at first. He did not want to force the issue, or take the focus off humans, but I thought it was time,” Nuan told him.

“So it is,” Lucien agreed fervently. “More than time. And I don't think the humans would mind it. Not that I speak for them,” he added hastily, his gaze flicking about the room to see if any of his human friends wanted to weigh in, “but in my view it’s silly to campaign for equal rights for one group, while ignoring the plight of another. It’s all connected, isn’t it?”

“That is just what I think, too,” Nuan agreed, smiling towards Vesper as he greeted Vassa, their two sets of wings arcing around them in a scene that Feyre surely could have painted.  “Either we are all free, or none of us are.”

Lucien could have wept at how true that was. “You were always three steps ahead of the rest of us,” he said hoarsely. “And four times as clever.”

“Flattery,” Nuan said, smiling bashfully, “from the one they call the fox of Prythian.”

“No one actually calls me that,” Lucien felt obliged to point out. Perhaps that was his reputation, but he wasn’t sure he was actually clever, given the sheer number of stupid decisions he’d made.

“We do in Dawn,” Nuan said, and all of her scales shone a bit more brightly, as though in agreement. She saw him looking down at her dress, and smiled, shifting a bit to the left, so that the scales lit up in a gorgeous striped pattern, turning an array of shimmering colors. “Do you like it? It’s my own creation. Modeled after a type of fish that swims in these waters. It can turn itself colors, even change up the pattern, to communicate.”

“I love it,” Lucien said eagerly, as Nuan’s dress flashed a brilliant orange, then white with yellow sunbursts, and finally settled back into the sleek silver design. His mechanical eye clicked rapidly, trying to keep up.

“Let me see that eye of yours,” Nuan said, his eye’s clicking drawing her attention. And before Lucien could joke that she was meant to be having fun tonight and not working, she was grasping his face in her hands, tilting him this way and that, so that she could examine his eye more closely. “Good. The device is in fine working order.”

Lucien laughed, gently swatting her hands from his face. “You can examine me later. I came here to celebrate,” he proclaimed.

The music began to rise in intensity as Nuan leaned in, whispering, “Then go dance and enjoy. I will have my turn later.”

Your turn? he almost asked, but then Vassa was before him, fiery and golden and holding her hands out to him, and he couldn’t have resisted such an invitation for all of the jewels in the Summer Court’s trove. He escorted her out to the middle of the dance floor, feeling the anticipation sparking in the air, and then the music was starting, and he let himself get lost in it.

Vassa spun away and back towards him, her heat and fire teasing his own magic forward, and he moved with her, so natural and easy, like this was a dance they’d been doing forever. She was a blur of gold and red in his vision, and then she was pressed up deliciously close against him, threatening to unravel all his composure. He knew he ought to let her go, pass her to Jurian who was properly her consort, but Vassa kept a firm grasp on him, murmuring, “Twirl me, Lucien, let them all see us,” and how could his body not obey?

The song entered an extended chorus, and he bowed gallantly to her before Jurian stepped forward, his own hand extended, and then they both turned and winked at Lucien in a way that he knew meant some plot was afoot. “What are you — “ he started to ask, but then another refrain started, and Jurian was smiling smugly at him, whisking Vassa away.

But Lucien had no time to ponder the mystery, for just then Cresseida was in front of him, hands outstretched, silently beckoning him. He eagerly accepted, partnering her until the song ended, then found Viviane poised and ready to take her place. They fell into comfortable step together, until Kallias cut in to dance with his mate, and Lucien found himself with Cyane in his arms instead.

“I’d forgotten how well you dance,” she gushed, proceeding through the waltz’s steps with smooth natural movements, as though she were gliding on ice.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he said, and she blushed as though it had been a great compliment.

Careful, he warned himself, recalling that there had once been a time when their fathers were in talks of marriage, a youngest son of a High Lord for a youngest daughter of noble birth, before Lucien had gone and sullied himself with Jesminda. He’d never dared think how Cyane must have taken it. They’d never been more than passing acquaintances, but had she believed that the match would happen? Had she been disappointed?

“Spin me,” she commanded, and he obliged, improvising the steps of the waltz, his gaze lingering on the darkened corners of the ballroom as Cyane twirled and preened. He hadn’t seen Elain at all, or Mor either, he realized. Perhaps they had decided not to attend, after all. Perhaps all his trepidation had been for nothing.

A giggling voice cut through his thoughts, and then the bubble-clad faerie from Day was in front of them. “Spare the next dance for me?” she crooned.

There was no way to safely refuse, not if he wanted to avoid a diplomatic incident. Perhaps this was his way into smoothing over relations with Day — perhaps Helion had even sent her for such a purpose.

So he nodded, trying to ignore Cyane’s pout, and gave the Winter Court princess a few extra twirls, before depositing her back with Viv and Kallias and exchanging partners yet again.

“So, you’re called Perse,” he said to the bubble-dress faerie, immediately feeling stupid. What an uninspired way to begin a conversation.

But the female’s face lit up. “How droll of you! How do you know my name already?”

Lucien opened his mouth, ready to explain that Helion had said it, but Perse was already going on, “Well, I know all about you, Lucien Vanserra. Why, no one’s talking about anyone else. You’re quite the male of the hour.”

“Am I?” he asked, faintly alarmed. Do I want to know what people are saying? He didn’t dare ask her.

One of the bubbles on Perse’s dress popped off of her neckline and floated away, winding a path up towards the ceiling, and without thinking much about it, Lucien touched the sleeve of her dress, filling a new bubble with air to add to her collection. “Oh,” she giggled, “I love your magic! I didn’t know your court could manipulate air.”

She probably meant Autumn, which had not been his court for many long years, but he wasn’t about to start quibbling with that characterization, or delving deep into his family history. “I spent several centuries living in Spring. I probably picked up a few things then.”

Perse’s dark eyes flashed, her plump lips parting. “Do you have a beast form, then?”

Lucien barked a laugh, resisting the urge to say something naughty. “Not like Tamlin,” he managed to say. “Horns wouldn’t suit me.”

Perse let out a trilling laugh that shivered unpleasantly down his spine, rather reminding him of Ianthe’s simpering cackle, but the female was mercifully oblivious to his sudden flash of discomfort, as she shimmied and writhed to the music. “Is it true what they say about males from Autumn?”

Lucien pretended he hadn’t detected the innuendo. “Well, we are uncommonly good at climbing trees, if that’s what you mean.”

“Of course. You’re tall and strong. A female could climb you,” Perse said, propelling herself forward so that she was squished up against him, tilting her face upwards as if he might kiss her. Lucien instinctively spun her out away from him instead, having no desire to take this charade any further, then eased her down into a low dip. She went with it, to his relief, arching her back, flinging an arm and leg out dramatically and squealing with delight, as if they’d planned this showpiece move together.

From somewhere in the room, Lucien could sense Helion’s flicker of displeasure, but he wasn’t certain if it was Perse’s antics the High Lord disapproved of, or the way that a Vanserra was cavorting with her. Either way, he was relieved when the dance ended, and Nuan stepped forward to claim the next dance, smoothly ignoring Perse’s indignant huff.

“Thank you,” he murmured, angling them so that his back was to Perse, and they swayed gently to the music, giving his poor tired feet a reprieve. “She was a little too enthusiastic.”

“That party girl act is an excellent cover,” Nuan commented, then chuckled at Lucien’s look of astonishment. “Rumor says Perse is Helion’s most accomplished spy. She did seem like she really liked you, but I’m sure she was also out to collect information.”

“Well, according to her, everyone’s talking about me tonight, Cauldron knows what strange things she’s going to tell him,” Lucien said, not daring to glance back to where he’d left Perse, rapidly running through their brief conversation in his mind. To his relief, he hadn’t said anything particularly compromising. He had shown off a bit of his magic, but that wasn’t exactly a secret, either.

“You know why they’re all talking, don’t you,” Nuan said gently.

He sighed, readily acknowledging it, but insisted, “I’m not going to let that derail the conference, no matter what — she — does, or doesn’t do.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’ve got nothing to fear,” Nuan said. “She seemed utterly harmless, when I met her. She’s not like the other Archerons, is she.”

Lucien swallowed hard, fighting to maintain his composure. “I really wouldn’t know.”

Nuan’s silver arm made a buzzing noise as she drew them closer, draping her arms around his shoulders. Lucien let himself be drawn in, deciding that if Helion’s little spies were watching, or whoever else decided to look at him, he could do worse than dancing like this. Let them draw the wrong conclusions.

“It’s been too long since you’ve visited Dawn,” Nuan said, the panels of her dress flashing a vibrant purple as one of the spotlights briefly shined on them. “Thesan thinks you’re avoiding us.”

“Quite the contrary,” Lucien assured her. “It’s just, I’ve been busy.” Busy with Vassa, and with Consortium business. He hadn’t extended the offer to Dawn, knowing their longtime tradition of remaining neutral. And he hadn’t wished to make it look like they were snubbing the other solar courts, even though that was sort of what they were doing. It had just been easier to stay far away, hide behind work, rather than have to try and explain it.

“It would be understandable,” Nuan said. “The palace is associated with trauma for you. Thesan would be happy for you to live elsewhere, if you ever decided to take up his offer.”

“Truly, that is kind,” Lucien said. “Thank your High Lord for thinking of me. Of course I’m perfectly happy to come visit. I don’t mind staying at the palace, either. But I don’t belong in a solar court.”

Nuan gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “I wouldn’t be so certain of that.”

Lucien gave another shrug, content to let the matter be. Who cared where he went, after tonight? He was here, where he ought to be, free from all those who wished to harm or control him. He was alive, and there was hope at last, a beckoning vision of a Prythian at peace, where no one else had to suffer Jesminda’s fate, or Leith Archeron’s, either.

“Now let’s see who’s next in line,” Nuan said, then spotted Briar and Tamlin together, swaying to the music as the song drew to a close. “Ah, yes. Right this way.”

“Next in line?” Lucien sputtered, failing to grasp what that could mean. But Nuan had taken his hand in hers, the grip of her silver fingers incredibly strong, and then Briar was joining him, taking her place, as though by some pre-arranged signal.

Another song, lively and quick, began, and Lucien guided her through the motions, guessing she wouldn’t yet know the steps. “Sorry,” Briar winced, after stepping on his toes for the third time, “these shoes make me clumsy.”

“Don’t bother with them, then,” Lucien suggested, sneaking a peek down at her heels, which were indeed causing her ankles to wobble. He guessed she was used to far more practical footwear, between the paucity of options in the human villages, and the need for thick boots at the Winter Court. “Just kick them off, and I’ll stick them in a pocket realm.”

Briar looked at him, wide eyed. “You’re certain?”

“No one will be looking at your feet,” he assured her. “It’s not that boring of a party.”

She laughed brightly, drawing Tamlin’s attention to her, then slid her feet out of her shoes and sighed with relief as they resumed dancing. “Oh, that is so much better. You males are lucky you don’t have to wear shoes like that.”

“Well, don’t look now, but my brother Callan is quite sensitive about his height. He’s the shortest of all the Vanserras,” Lucien said, winking at her confidentially, “and I guarantee his heels are taller than yours.”

Briar giggled, but said, “I suppose that’s nothing to laugh at? He can’t exactly help it, can he?”

“No, but he’s a brute who sucked up to our father by ratting the rest of us out, and blaming me especially for his own misdeeds, because I was youngest, the runt of the litter. And he could help that very well, if he’d chosen to have a conscience. So I feel no guilt about jokes at his expense,” Lucien shrugged. He risked glancing around the ballroom, frowning when he couldn’t find a single member of the Autumn delegation. He didn’t see anyone else that someone might look for, either, not that he was looking for her specifically. Just checking, was all.

“She is here, in case you’re wondering,” Briar commented, startling him immensely. “Tamlin and I bumped into her a little bit earlier.”

Lucien looked at Tamlin in alarm, but he was only smiling fondly at them, his eyes resting on Briar in particular. He’d taken the presence of an Archeron in stride, then, at least enough that he’d kept his emotions in check. Lucien wondered if he could do the same.

“She wasn’t exactly what I was expecting,” Briar was saying. “Being a High Lady’s sister, I thought she’d be haughtier.”

“That was never her way,” Lucien said, as though he knew the first thing about Elain Archeron and what sort of person she truly was. He had once thought her kind, and caring and sweet, based on his own brief glimpses of her at the Night Court, and the glowing praise Leith had heaped upon her. But what she had done to Lucien had not been kind, and he’d realized he actually didn’t know her whatsoever.

“I think maybe,” Briar said carefully, looking up at him with friendly concern in her eyes, “maybe we’ve all been a little bit hasty —“

But she never got to finish her sentence, for at that moment the crowd parted on the dance floor, revealing the High Lord of Autumn, resplendent and fiery, his whole delegation trailing behind him.

“Showoff,” Lucien growled, then turned to Briar, murmuring, “Callan’s the third one from the left.”

Briar nodded discreetly, slipping back to Tamlin’s side, and if she angled her head a bit to get a gander at Callan’s footwear, Lucien pretended not to notice.

He strode forward, determined to get this greeting over with, and get back to the very enjoyable party. He was on better terms with Eris than he’d ever been, but relations with the rest of the family were still tense, for there was too much bad blood between them all. Killian was unrepentant about what they’d done to Lucien, about forcing him to watch Jes's last awful moments and chasing him away from Autumn afterwards, and Lucien in turn didn’t care to apologize for the violent way Finn and Tallon had died, and didn’t care how much his surviving brothers blamed him.

Eris reached him, and they clasped arms, greeting each other the traditional way. “I was wondering if you’d ever show up,” Lucien said.

“Well met, little brother. Is that what passes for manners in the human realm,” Eris asked disdainfully, but there was no real bite behind his words. “I ought to haul you back home for some etiquette lessons.”

“Try it, and Vassa will kick your ass,” Lucien said evenly, nodding stiffly to his other brothers, which was all the greeting they deserved. Killian gave him a miserable scowl, but the rest of Eris’s entourage merely nodded back. On their best behavior tonight, then.

“I would very much like her to try,” Eris purred, a sly smile curling up in one corner of his mouth. “But I don’t wish to provoke a diplomatic incident.” His eyes strayed to one corner of the ballroom, and Lucien clamped down hard on his curiosity, refusing to look himself. “Not with Vassa, anyway.”

“Whatever you’re planning, don’t,” Lucien objected. “We can’t let anything ruin this conference.”

“That is precisely the idea,” Eris said. “I intend to make sure that cannot happen.” He motioned, and their younger brothers stepped aside. “And while I’m doing my duty as High Lord, you can entertain Mother.”

“Entertain —- Mother?” Lucien gasped, his heart stuttering out as Áine Vanserra stepped out from behind Killian, softly smiling at him.

“Hello, Sunshine.”

Chapter Text

Lucien gave a shuddering cry, flinging his arms around his mother, who laughed in startled delight before twining her arms around him in return. “Mother,” he said hoarsely, a million thoughts flooding his mind, elation and guilt and sheer relief all warring for dominance, and he struggled for the right words to say before blurting, “I’m sorry I didn’t come for Solstice.”

Áine stroked his hair with her slender fingers, murmuring, “I know, Sunshine.”

From somewhere distant and yet nearby, in some other world where there was a ballroom, and people and dancing, and he and his mother were a part of it, he heard Eris scoffing, “You two, you’re so adorable it’s disgusting. I trust you won’t cause too much trouble if I leave you to it?”

“Go on, we’re fine, darling,” their mother assured him, at the same moment that Lucien growled, “Fuck off, Eris.”

“Lucien,” Áine exclaimed reproachfully, but Eris only snickered, bowing exaggeratedly to both of them before spinning smoothly on his heel and stalking away.

Their other brothers seemed to shrug collectively, then dispersed across the dance floor, but Lucien gave them no more of his attention, especially as his mother cupped his cheek in her hand, gently tracing the scar lines with her thumb. “You’re looking well, sweetheart.”

“I am well, Mother,” he declared. “I’m better than ever.”

Her warm russet eyes searched his face, trying to discern the lie or truth of it, and then she nodded slightly, almost to herself, like she’d decided to believe it. And it was true, for just being able to stand here like this, openly looking at her, no brutish Beron to threaten them, no nosy or jealous older brothers, no sentries hovering to spy on their talk, no Attor and no Amarantha, just the two of them free and unencumbered, was enough to make his heart swell with happiness.

“I can see that. Why, you’re glowing,” she whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from his face.

Lucien glanced down at himself, noting that his skin had indeed taken on that odd sheen again, then shrugged. “I had one of Cress’s concoctions. It’s making my magic act funny.”

She gave him an odd look he couldn’t interpret, but the orchestra struck up a new tune just then, and without having to make a conscious choice, they fell into the steps together, Lucien angling them towards the middle of the dance floor where they wouldn’t be easily interrupted. It was against all protocol, but he didn’t care. Formal greetings could wait — he was sure Tarquin and Cresseida would not object. He so rarely saw his mother, especially outside of visits to the Forest House, that he was entitled to be greedy, he decided.

“And you, Mother? How are you doing?” he asked, examining her more carefully. She was beautiful, as always, even when beaten down and forlorn, but now with her abusive husband gone, she looked lighter and more relaxed, more herself, than he’d seen in a long time. She was out of mourning colors at last, arrayed in green silk that set off her pale coloring and red hair perfectly. But he frowned to see that her skin was wan, her eyes tired, and that now that the initial euphoria of their meeting had passed, she had a pensive, downcast expression. Lucien had hoped she might be more optimistic and joyous, but he supposed she was still recovering from a lifetime of the bastard’s cruelty, from the strangling grip he’d had on her spirit.

“I am well as can be expected,” she said quietly.“Things are better, now. I am happy to see the changes in Autumn. Eris governs fairly and wisely. He’s got initiatives for everything, agricultural reforms, reparations for villages affected by war, safeguards against corruption by the regional governors. Despite the — unorthodox — way his powers overwhelmed his predecessor, all sensible folk have embraced him.”

Lucien nodded, thinking that Eris had indeed made vast improvements to Autumn, just in the short time he’d been at the helm. It was good to hear his mother corroborate his impressions, but what he wanted to know was more immediate, more personal than whether Eris’s agricultural reforms were bearing good harvests.“But what about you? Are they good to you, the courtiers and common folk? All my brothers?”

There’ll be hell to pay otherwise, from both me and Eris. Despite their fraught history, all their differences, when it came to Áine, they thought with one mind and heart. In a family where they fought, schemed, and bled for every scrap of advantage, their mother had always been the one thing that was off-limits.

“Don’t trouble yourself, my son. I am fine,” Áine assured him, patting his shoulder. “Honestly, there’s not much to tell.” Why not, he almost interrupted to ask. “I hear you’ve been quite busy, these last few months.”

It was only an observation, not a rebuke, but it stung as though she’d physically slapped him. “I meant to come for Eris’s first Equinox as High Lord. Or for Solstice,” he stammered, looking pleading at her, silently begging her to understand. “But events transpired with Vassa and her curse, and I thought I ought not to leave her just then.”

It sounded inadequate even to his ears, but it had the advantage of being true. He hadn’t wanted to leave the manor while Vassa was newly recovering, trying to gain control over her residual magic, knowing she would soon be gone to Scythia and he’d probably never see her or Jurian again. The fact that he hadn’t wanted to deal with his asshole brothers, and the old ghosts of Autumn that haunted him no matter where he resided, had only added to his conviction that he was making the right decision. It did bother him that he so rarely got to see his mother, but the sad truth was, he’d long been accustomed to missing her.

His mother turned fractionally, catching sight of Vassa and her magnificent firebird wings as she swayed to the rhythm with Jurian, then looked back to him with a new gleam in her eye, like she was discerning the full truth of his relationship with the human queen, and deciding she approved of it. “Then your queen is no longer bound to Koschei’s lake?”

“Helion found a way to break the curse,” Lucien explained, noting with alarm the way his mother’s face paled. Surely she knew that was good news? He couldn’t understand why she almost seemed nervous to hear it. “Vassa is free.”

“She is most impressive, Sunshine,” Áine said, seemingly recovering her good humor. “I do hope you are happy with her.”

“Yes, I have been very happy,” Lucien declared, a warm lovely feeling curling up inside him as he said it. He would cherish the memories of his time with Vassa, wear them like a blanket, wield them like armor. “And now that her curse is dispelled, she can reclaim her throne, lead her people as she was always meant to do.”

His mother’s face fell. “You will be quite far away, then.”

“Oh, I’m not going to go with her,” Lucien explained, waving a hand, noting with relief that the odd glow had faded from his skin. “Fae are still despised there, you know. My going along would only complicate matters.”

Áine opened her mouth to protest, or ask a question, but just then an argument exploded into their awareness from across the ballroom. “— What’s your point, Eris? I’m busy,” a strident voice snapped.

“Oh no,” Lucien murmured.

His mother’s hands tightened on his shoulders, and she took the lead in the dancing, steering them so that Lucien’s back was to Eris and the female he’d provoked to anger, whom he hadn’t seen but could only be Morrigan. He’d been starting to think the Night Court had skipped the opening ball. Leave it to Eris to not only find her, but start an argument.

That probably meant Elain was somewhere in the room as well. Why hadn’t he seen her?

She’s not your concern anymore, she’s like any other stranger, he scolded himself, as if he could ever fucking believe that.

“Never mind all that,” his mother coaxed him. “Let Eris handle himself. I want to hear about you, Sunshine. What will you do when your human friends depart? Have you considered returning to Prythian?”

Lucien could have burst out laughing. “No, but apparently everyone else has. And if you’re about to offer me a place in Eris’s court, I must inform you that I’m going to refuse it out of hand.”

“You can tell him that,” Áine said. “But your diplomatic skills are needed in Autumn. I’m not sure he’ll take no for an answer.”

“Mother, you know I can’t go back to Autumn,” Lucien said pleadingly, shocked that she was even suggesting it. He would never reside there again, not after all that had happened. And it was definitely not up to Eris to decide on his behalf. Despite being centuries older and a High Lord of Prythian, Eris was not his sire, and had no claim on him.

Áine smiled up at him, a gentle, sad smile. “I know, sweetheart. As much as it pains me, I understand it.” She sighed and drew closer to him, her scent of sweet apples lingering in the air. “Your destiny lies elsewhere.”

Lucien laughed, hoping he sounded more amused than bitter as he said, “I think I was always destined to wander.”

His mother’s eyes met his again. “For a time, yes. Perhaps not for always.”

Suddenly he perceived that a male was approaching them — Cato, one of Tarquin’s courtiers, who was surely about to engage Áine in some stuffy and proper exchange of greetings, or extend condolences for the loss of her dear departed husband — so Lucien took his chance as the music struck up again, a faster and more vibrant tune, maneuvering his mother out of the way.

“That was shockingly rude of you, Lucien,” Áine chastised him, but she was giggling, a sound quite foreign but very welcome to his ears.

“Cato’s a hardliner,” Lucien said unapologetically, “who’s against equality for females, lesser fae, and humans. He deserves a little rudeness, now and again.”

“Well, when you put it like that, perhaps you’re right,” Áine said. “But you’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar, darling.”

Lucien resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. He knew what Jurian would say to that — shit attracts the most flies of all.

He looked into his mother’s kind face, and decided he couldn’t bring himself to be quite that vulgar, settling for, “Maybe I don’t want flies, Mother.”

Áine huffed another soft laugh. “You know what I mean. You were always were stubborn, Sunshine.”

So gods-damned true. That had been his downfall, and his salvation, more times than he could count.

“I don’t care,” Eris’s voice carried to them, shockingly loud and strident. Like he wanted the whole ballroom to hear him. “I’m telling you right now, it’s not going to happen. Not after what she’s already put him through.”

Lucien had a pretty good idea of what they were arguing over, or whom, and his ears burned with humiliation. Eris had to be taking Morrigan to task for bringing Elain to the summit. “I would kill him right now, if it wouldn’t make Killian High Lord,” he grumbled.

“I’m sure Eris knows what he is doing,” Áine said placatingly.

Suddenly a piece of the puzzle clicked for Lucien — why Eris had made that dramatic entrance, surprising him with their mother’s presence, then ordering him to entertain her. And I obeyed him, like an idiot.

Lucien sputtered, “He put you up to this, didn’t he.”

“Sunshine. No,” his mother protested. “That is not what happened.”

“I think it was,” Lucien said, frowning at the hurt look on her face. He mentally kicked himself for his impulsive reaction. Hadn’t she been through enough in her life, without him adding more pain to it?

But he couldn’t let the point go, not quite. “He might not have phrased it exactly like that,” he said in a more conciliatory tone. “But I don’t think this was at all an accident, that you’re here to dance with me just as he’s provoking Night into an argument. Don’t you find that a little too convenient?”

“Maybe Eris did plan it this way,” she conceded. “That is the sort of thing he would do, using every tool at his disposal, if he thought it was necessary.”

Lucien gritted his teeth. “You are not meant to be a tool, Mother.”

“I know, love. And you can take him to task for it later. But the truth is, I wanted to do something. Make a contribution. So when Killian showed up, saying I was needed at the summit, and that you would be here, I jumped at the opportunity. I didn’t ask what Eris’s motives were.” Áine reached up to smooth out the furrow between his brows, and he relaxed into the caring touch, despite his anger. “Try to understand, Sunshine. It’s different for you. You were able to leave, start anew.”

Lucien’s throat burned. He had not wanted to leave Autumn — he had been chased from it, under the worst possible circumstances.

But he tried to push his own hurts aside, focus on what his mother was saying. “You’ve made a difference, darling, found your purpose, but I haven’t. I’ve lingered around Autumn like a ghost for too long.”

Lucien swallowed hard, his rush of indignation settling down into a more brooding sorrow. “I am glad you’re here, Mother, please don’t misunderstand me. But it pains me to hear you talk so. I had thought maybe, with Father gone, you would help Eris, take a formal position in the government.”

“So he’s offered,” Áine said. “Many different positions, in fact. But the folk in Autumn don’t see me as anything but Beron’s faithful wife, or a backchannel to influence Eris, and I’m not going to put him in that position, where his own mother is used against him. There’s all sorts of wicked games that they’d use me as a pawn in, if I allowed it.”

Lucien shuddered, not doubting it. His mother was far too shrewd for that — despite the meek and innocent image she’d portrayed throughout her marriage, she was devastatingly clever and insightful about people, which was how she’d managed to survive for so long, to maneuver around Beron and his wolves, even sneaking away to help Feyre Under the Mountain right under his nose.

“You ought not to be anyone’s pawn, Mother,” he declared. “Just the opposite. You have the right to rule, as much as anyone.” Her contributions over the centuries had been behind the scenes, quietly undoing the damage Beron had done, but it shocked him that the folk of Autumn were so blind as to not recognize it. But perhaps she didn't even recognize it in herself, or think of those thousands of little acts of caring and mercy as important. “I’m surprised Eris would not make you High Lady.”

Áine shook her head. “I wouldn’t want that role for myself, even if he insisted on it. That should be for whomever he marries. Any strong partner worthy of him would insist on it.”

“Over you, who’s been the Lady of Autumn for centuries? That is ill-advised and distasteful,” Lucien complained, hating the idea of Eris bringing some new female to the Forest House, only to have her flaunt her newfound influence over their mother.

“It’s just the reality. Any wife of a High Lord would be at a disadvantage if she didn’t have a title equal to her counterparts at the other courts. It may not be right, but I’m only being practical, Sunshine. I don’t wish to be competition, sow disunity. Cauldron knows your brother doesn’t need that complication,” Áine sighed, playing with the fabric of his cape, as though working up the courage to say more. She looked around nervously, then whispered, “At one point I’d wondered, with Beron gone — but perhaps not.”

An unaccountable chill ran down Lucien’s spine. “Perhaps not what?”

She chuckled mirthlessly, laying the fabric of his cape back down and smoothing it out with a pale hand. “Perhaps I was a fool to hope. Perhaps too much time has passed, too much has happened.”

Lucien’s mind raced, striving mightily to figure out what she might be hinting at, and coming up empty. “There’s always hope, isn’t there?”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and Lucien gently heated up the air around them, evaporating it discreetly. “I once thought so. But now, I’m not certain.”

The floor rumbled underneath their feet, and Lucien gripped his mother’s hands, his magic flaring to defensive readiness. He scanned the room rapidly for the threat, some small rational voice in his mind reasoning that surely no intruder would get far, with so many High Lords and Ladies in attendance. And indeed, he caught sight of one High Lord in particular grinning smugly, holding up his hands in a mockery of a placating gesture, while a blond female in a low-cut gown glared murderously at him.

“Bastard,” Lucien muttered, “he provoked that on purpose.” He quickly turned them away from the scene, deliberately putting himself between his mother and Morrigan. Not that she would lash out at an innocent female, but it wouldn’t be the first time that his mother had gotten caught in the crossfire, when a member of his family had goaded the Night Court to anger.

Áine let out a sigh. “I do wish they’d bury that enmity between them. After all these centuries, isn’t it time? Why must people hold onto their grievances?”

“Sometimes it’s all they have left,” Lucien said, his pounding heart settling down into a calmer rhythm, now that Eris had retreated across the ballroom, saying something low to Tarquin and Kallias, while Viviane discreetly slipped away from the group. Probably to go comfort Morrigan. 

His mother shrugged her delicate shoulders, as though she might dismiss the topic, but then she seemed to freeze in place, staring at something behind them. 

Lucien turned slowly, casually, desperate to know what had startled his mother, but not wanting to tip off bystanders or make a scene. His eye clicked and buzzed, straining to get a better view, and he angled his head in just the right way to see Helion Spell-Cleaver, standing at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes intently watching them.

Lucien hastily turned back around, angling his body so that he was shielding his mother. “Is he bothering you, Mother? I can tell him to go away —“

“No,” she said quickly, taking several gasping breaths of air before she managed to get a good inhale in. Lucien watched her miserably, bracing his hands on her shoulders to steady her, having no idea what was the matter. “It’s all right, Sunshine.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow at her. “It obviously isn’t.”

“You’re right. It isn’t,” Áine said, and she impulsively grabbed his hands in hers. “Will you promise me something?”

“Anything. Everything,” he babbled, his stomach clenching with anxiety.

“Promise you’ll try to understand,” she said, squeezing his hands. “Promise you’ll try to forgive me.”

“Mother,” he burst out, “what in all the hells is—“

“Hello, Áine.”

Lucien stiffened, sensing without having to look that Helion was right behind him. A rush of confused thoughts clouded his mind, from the familiar way Helion had addressed her — some of the High Lords didn’t even know her first name, much less feel emboldened to address her with it — to the way his own magic swirled uneasily inside him. Like Helion’s proximity was shaking it loose from him, coaxing it forward.

Get it together, idiot, Mother needs you.

He tried to make his face go blank, to become the diplomat and courtier that the world expected of him, and when he turned to face Helion, he was surprised at how somber and reserved the male now seemed. Gone was the preening confidence, the swagger, the easy flirtatious banter. Helion seemed… nervous.

“Helion,” his mother said, gazing up at the High Lord of Day, her voice wobbling slightly on the syllables. She opened her mouth again, as if to say more, but then changed her mind and shut it again.

“It’s been a long time,” Helion said, far too quietly.

“A long time indeed. We have not seen each other since the last High Lords’ meeting,” his mother said, her voice barely a whisper.

Helion shifted, the dim light of the ballroom catching on the spikes of his diadem. “That was a mockery, not a meeting.”

Lucien’s mind raced, trying to parse out what was happening, but he was missing too much information, too much context for it to make sense. He had not been at that particular summit, but had thought he’d gotten the full story of what had happened. Obviously not, he thought, looking from his mother to Helion, and then back again.

“I wrote,” Áine said, plaintively, but there was a hint of fire in her eyes, too. “You didn’t answer.”

Helion hissed, “Answer? You wanted me to answer? When you are the one who —“ Suddenly he seemed to register that Lucien was still standing there, and snapped, “Leave us, boy.”

Lucien squared his shoulders, trying to ignore the dismissive tone, striving to sound matter of fact. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” 

“It’s all right, Sunshine,” his mother said, her eyes still on Helion. “The High Lord and I have some — things to work out.”

Lucien sighed in resignation. He wouldn’t be yet another overbearing male hovering about his mother, protecting her when she was clearly telling him to back off. “All right. But only because you’re asking me to,” he said pointedly.

“Sunshine,” Helion murmured, more to himself than anyone.

Lucien deliberately stepped back, removing himself from the conversation. He wondered if this was why Eris hated Helion, if there was some history between their two courts that he’d not been aware of. But why, then, would Eris not speak of it? The whole thing bothered him immensely, his mother’s frantic pleading most of all.

Why would she ever need my forgiveness?

He glanced about the ballroom, realizing the party had been going on all around him without him noticing one single bit of it. Most of the guests were drinking and dancing, oblivious to his mother and Helion standing quietly together, but a few of the more sober courtiers were peering at them curiously, then quickly resumed their talk and their dancing as soon as they saw Lucien looking their way.

Lucien was looking for Vassa and Jurian, for Tamlin or Tarquin, when his eyes happened to stray to a dark corner close to the exit, and he was startled to see a pair of wide brown eyes gazing back at him.

That was Elain Archeron, standing by the windows. It could be no other. He’d so long ago memorized the sight of her, the way her golden hair glittered, the soft rosy glow of her skin, the kind intelligence of her wide set eyes. He would know her dumped soaking wet from the Cauldron, heartsick and vacant in Velaris’s thin sunlight, blood-splattered and triumphant from the battlefield, and he knew it was her now.

It was a strange sight, Elain like this, in a black silk dress with sheer chiffon panels draped artfully around her, for it heightened the paleness of her features and hid her curves despite showing plenty of flesh. She looked miserably uncomfortable, her hands gripping the wall behind her, her lips pressed tightly together, and Lucien wondered if there was a scream trapped inside her, desperate to escape.

It was if ten years had been one thousand, for all the distance that lay between them. She was lost to him now as she’d ever been. She was still devastatingly beautiful, still mysterious, for she was still hiding herself away, still avoiding him. And that made him want to howl in fury.

Was this what she’d rejected the bond for, in such sudden fashion? So she could hover on the sidelines, camouflaged in Rhys’s stupid Night Court black, miserable and out of place and watching him warily, like a deer trapped by a hunter’s snare?

Her lips parted, like she would speak, but formed no words, and he suddenly jolted to realize that he’d been openly staring, at her lips, of all the damn things. Self-loathing, and anger at her, burned low in his gut. She’d made it abundantly clear she’d wanted nothing to do with him, yet here he was, making her uncomfortable yet again, and torturing himself in the process. There was only one thing she’d ever wanted from him — his absence.

Lucien took a deep, shuddering breath, then turned away.

Chapter Text

“Are you well, Lucien? You look troubled.”

Lucien blinked rapidly, wrenching his mind from his swirling thoughts, and gave a polite smile to the dance partner in front of him, hoping he hadn’t been too inconsiderate. “Not at all, Eos. Just hoping I don’t step on your gown. You strike a fair portrait in satin and ruffles.”

The Dawn healer laughed heartily. “Do you like it? It’s meant to be one of those jellyfish creatures. Did you know they harbor a potent toxin, that if tempered with the right compounds, can act as anesthetic?”

“I’ll keep that in mind, if I’m ever again in need of your services,” Lucien said, suppressing his shudder. The last time he’d needed Eos’s help, he’d been a bleeding, distraught mess, his face freshly gouged and poisoned by Amarantha’s fingertips. His left eye socket pulsed with the phantom pain of it, and he quickly glanced up at the ballroom ceiling as a distraction, where the bulbous creatures, with tentacles like Eos’s ribbons, floated silently by. He couldn’t decide if the effect was soothing, or ominous.“You know, I don’t recall having ever seen you out of healer’s robes before.”

“Well, if you came to visit us more often, and not just when you’re on official business, you might get other chances,” Eos scolded him gently.

Lucien chuckled, and asked her more questions, about her research and the new clinic for daemati patients that Dawn had opened after the War ended, to treat the many victims left behind from Amarantha’s reign, and perhaps find a way to reverse the psychic damage. Eos chatted amiably with him, as they danced and talked, the jagged edges of Lucien’s awareness smoothed out into calm relaxation. It was an effort to focus on the answers and not allow his mind to wander, but Eos was a delightful companion, learned and wise without being overbearing, and the weight of his own troubles felt just a bit lighter.

Everything was fine. There was no need to panic. He’d survived that first awkward encounter with his former mate, had managed to look Elain in the eyes without being brought to his knees. Surely now they could get on with the summit without any more disruptions. Surely now he could do what Jurian had done with Miryam, and move on.

I wanted to see her, just to see that she was happy, and then let it go.

But Elain hadn’t been happy, not in the slightest.

It’s still none of your business, he scolded himself. She rejected the bond, in the cruelest way possible. If she’s not happy, it’s her own affair, and you’ll do well to leave her to it. You’re not her gods-damned savior.

Eos was smiling, but she looked a bit worried, and Lucien realized he’d let his face slip into a scowl. His anxiety spiked, for he was being rude and unsociable, and burdening this lovely conversation with his own stupid past, letting the rejected bond to continue to haunt him. Stop thinking about it, you’re getting yourself riled up again —

“There you are,” Vassa declared, striding towards him and Eos, smiling brightly at them both. “Jurian’s pissed that he owes me ten gold marks. I told him he ought to bet on Eris starting the first fight, and — what’s got you all twisted in knots?” she interrupted herself, grasping his face in her hands, rustling her wings so that sparks flew into the air. “Who do I need to incinerate?”

“No one, gods, Vassa,” he said quickly. He was a roiling mess inside, but he was grinning, in spite of it all. “I’m fine. I promise.”

Eos gave Vassa a polite curtsey, then squeezed Lucien’s hand and departed, leaving them alone on the dance floor, and then Vassa’s hands sank into the fabric of his tunic, dragging him forward so that she could kiss him.

Lucien melted into her, eagerly returning the kiss, then blinked at her in wonderment as she pulled back. “What was that for?”

Vassa’s turquoise eyes were sparkling with amusement. “Do I need a reason?” But then she said, more softly, tracing a line down his chest with the tip of her finger, “You just looked like you needed it.”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “I’m worried about Mother. She was having some kind of argument with Helion that they didn’t want me hearing.” Then he swallowed hard and added, “And I might have seen Elain, hiding in the corner.”

Vassa scoffed contemptuously, “Oh, I saw. Don’t worry, she’s gone now.”

Lucien’s gut clenched with anxiety. Gone? “But —“

“But nothing. Good riddance to her,” Vassa declared, hooking her arm through his and leading him away from the dancing, towards a finely arrayed table where Jurian was already sitting with his feet propped up, and Tamlin and Briar seated beside him, each with a steaming plate of delicious-smelling food that Lucien wasn’t sure his uneasy stomach could tolerate. “She wasn’t even supposed to be here. Morrigan even said so.”

“She did?” Lucien didn’t resist as she pushed him into a chair, then plopped herself on his lap, grabbing a prepared plate of savory fish and roasted corn to put in front of him.

“Eris is a bastard, but he does get results,” Vassa said, chortling, and Jurian made a snort of agreement. “Morrigan was livid, after he was done with her. I heard her telling Viviane she didn’t want to bring anyone, but the little spoiled brat insisted on coming along.”

“She didn’t actually use those words, did she?” Lucien frowned, not thrilled at the idea of Elain’s own people speaking so disrespectfully of her. He couldn’t imagine that Feyre or Azriel, or Cauldron forbid Nesta, would tolerate that, either.

Vassa waggled the fork at him, and he accepted it from her, taking a bite of deliciously spiced dinner, then caught Briar’s concerned expression from across the table. “The Night Court can be a little rough around the edges,” he said. “Half the time they don’t mean the rude things they say.” Then he frowned at himself, at the old impulse to defend them. One glance at Elain, and I’m back to being a fucking idiot, apparently.

“You’re being generous. They’re also ungrateful and vicious,” Jurian remarked, sliding his shoes off of the chair so that Vassa could plunk herself down into it, which for him was a remarkably chivalrous gesture. “Now that little Archeron’s here on her own, without her winged warrior or sisters to defend her, she might be learning that one the hard way.”

Briar said, “Then maybe it’s better that they sent her, after all. She was perfectly polite when I spoke to her.”

Tamlin shifted uncomfortably. “That much is a relief, I suppose.”

“What high standards we have,” Vassa scoffed, “that one would deserve praise for being polite at a diplomatic conference.” She turned to Lucien, nudging his hand holding the fork until he sighed and took another bite. “She was never polite to you, was she.”

“Not really,” Lucien admitted, choking down the bite of dinner, then grabbing the first full glass he saw and drinking a large mouthful of it. It turned out to be another one of Cresseida’s concoctions, and his magic flared, fiery sparks igniting at his fingertips, and more of that odd glow he’d noticed earlier. “But she doesn’t owe me anything,” he added, closing his fist hastily to snuff out the flames. “She rejected the bond. We’ve both gone our own way.”

“You have,” Jurian said pointedly. “Seeing her here, I’m not so certain.”

Lucien shrugged, feigning an indifference that rang wholly false, tipping more of the drink into his throat, as though it could fill that aching, hollow space inside him where the bond should have been. He’d once thought it would carve its way through him, that gnawing grief, consume him from the inside out. He would have welcomed that, during those early days, but some stubborn part of him needed to survive it, if only to be able to laugh at the stupid injustice of it all.

Briar put her fork down, then gently brushed her hand over Tamlin’s. “These things take time, I suppose.”

Tamlin’s hand curled around hers, and he smiled, an actual smile, that lit up his ruggedly handsome features, made his green eyes sparkle like emeralds. Lucien averted his gaze from them, giving them semblance of privacy, ignoring Jurian’s snort of agreement.

His mechanical eye clicked as he scanned the ballroom, clocking who was sitting together, which courts were mingling, which delegations were avoiding each other. The Dawn delegation was sitting together, Vesper’s beautiful feathery wings slung over both Eos and Nuan’s chairs, while the Day Court representatives had split up, insinuating themselves at multiple tables, in an attempt to ingratiate themselves or gather intelligence, or probably both.

Lucien turned towards the dance floor next. It had thinned out, now that the dinner was served, but he saw that his mother was still standing in place, a hand extended out towards Helion. Words were being spoken between them, pleading words from Áine that made her hands tremble, met with cold angry words from Helion, though the look in his dark eyes was far different — not anger, but longing.

Then Lucien happened to look further, towards the far edge of the dance floor, and there were the fiery eyes of his brother, watching every breath their mother and Helion took.

Eris’s face went even paler, and then he spun on his heel, briskly stalking away from the dance floor, towards one of the bubble columns. He locked eyes with Lucien again as the bubbles swept over him, and gave the slightest jerk of his chin — a silent command to follow.

Lucien sighed, then flung himself out of his chair, tossing off, “I’ll be right back” over his shoulder. He skirted the edges of the dance floor, avoiding his mother, ignoring his friends’ calls of alarm, and stormed into the curtain of bubbles to be whisked up to the upper ballroom.

Eris whirled around, his amber eyes blazing with fury, as Lucien shoved him back into the wall, his fingers sinking into Eris’s collar. “You want to distract me, don’t use our mother to do it. She’s off limits. You know that, Eris.”

Eris disdainfully shoved his hands away, then made a show of straightening his collar and smoothing out his shirt. “Have you been sneaking off to the Night Court, brother? You’ve adopted their brutish manners.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Lucien growled, suppressing the urge to punch Eris’s smug Vanserra nose out of joint. “You know I haven’t been back there in more than a decade. Just because Elain’s here tonight — “ He broke off suddenly, chuckling at himself. All these years later, and he was still falling for Eris’s misdirections. “You sly bastard. Don’t change the subject.”

Eris sighed, but a hint of a smile played across his pale features. “You were always the cleverest of us. Well, except for me, of course.”

“Modest to the last.” Lucien rolled his eyes. “But I mean it. Mother is not a pawn in anyone’s game.”

“Do you really think so low of me? I did not bring Mother here solely to distract you,” Eris said defensively. “She wanted to come. Specifically requested it. So I sent for her as soon as I deemed it safe to do so. If my timing just happened to work out perfectly, so much the better.”

“Perfectly for you. Though why you had to go and antagonize the Night Court, I still don’t understand,” Lucien argued.

Eris gave a soft huff in frustration, his amber eyes blazing with a hint of his vast firepower. “And that, dear brother, is the difference between us. You would allow them to trample you senseless before you gave a single thought to counteracting them. I made it clear we are not to be trifled with. Call it antagonizing if you like, but Rhysand started it the moment he sent that hussy here —“

“Watch it,” Lucien growled, his own power starting to build up in his bones.

“Temper,” Eris tsked. “You were always hotheaded, irrational, even as a youngling. Always to your detriment, with the Night Court especially. You allowed that bond of yours to rob you of all sense. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t let them take you away.”

Lucien’s lips sprouted a wry grin, despite it all. “Still sticking to that story?”

“Please,” Eris waved a hand dramatically in the air, a wisp of fire arcing with the movement, “we were fighting on ice, by the Cauldron. I could have simply melted the ground out from under those two Illyrian brutes, if I’d chosen it. Or winnowed away, at any point, including the moment I happened upon you two fast asleep.”

“Or you could have just left us alone,” Lucien grumbled.

“And suffer Father’s punishment for disobedience, and find myself physically and mentally beaten down, right as we were headed to war with Hybern? What a lousy strategist you make, brother. I’m almost considering rescinding my offer,” Eris said sourly.

The bubbles churned behind them, indicating that someone else was traveling up, and Lucien snagged his brother’s arm and moved them further away, breathing a silent sigh of relief when he saw that it was only Perse, the bubbly Day Court faerie he’d danced with earlier. She gave him a brilliant smile, then headed towards the far end of the ballroom, out of his line of sight.

Lucien turned his back resolutely to her, then murmured more softly to Eris, “Fine. I admit you threw the fight at the Winter Court border. But you didn’t summon me up here to talk about old history.”

Eris hummed noncommittally, but he looked a little chagrined, like he was uncomfortable. Or nervous.

“Well? Out with it,” Lucien sputtered.

Eris raised a coppery eyebrow. “Are you telling me you didn’t see for yourself?”

“I don’t know what I saw,” Lucien said, though he did have his own strong suspicions. It was just so odd, so completely out of his experience to see his mother with a male outside their family, especially engaged in an intimate conversation. “It’s clear that Mother and Helion know each other well.”

“Well, that’s an understatement,” Eris said.

So it was that serious, after all. “How long?”

Eris took a bracing breath before answering. “Since before she married Father.”

“Why did I never know of this?” Lucien asked, annoyed with himself. He’d always considered himself to be at least somewhat cunning and perceptive. How had he missed something so very important? It rankled him, just on principle.

“It ended right before you were born,” Eris said.

A chill crawled down Lucien’s spine. “Ended? Was it… Father?” He could only imagine the blinding rages, the furious violence, the cruel torments their mother would have suffered, if she’d been discovered to be dallying outside of the marriage bed.

Eris shuddered. “You can already guess the answer. His rage that day, and many days after — It was unspeakable, Lucien.” He tugged at his suit jacket, then slicked his hands through his hair, as though he could slough off the memory of it. “And so it was never spoken of. By anyone. It was the only way to keep Mother alive, and as safe as she could be.”

Which they both knew was not safe at all.

“Could she not have escaped? Gone to Helion for protection?” Lucien asked.

Eris shook his head. “Father made sure that couldn’t happen.”

Lucien waited for him to go on, his breaths shallow and stuttering, as though the ceiling had opened and the ocean poured in, plunging them into the inky darkness. Finally, he croaked out, “How?”

Eris’s eyes fluttered closed, just for a moment, before he spoke again. “Helion and Mother are -- were -- mates. And Father forced her to reject the bond.”

Lucien took a gasping breath, his heart beginning to pound. He’d thought that nothing Beron Vanserra did could shock him anymore — the male was capable of the most depraved acts of torture and murder — but somehow, this still managed to surprise him. He knew exactly how terrifying it was to have a mating bond suddenly go silent, how gut wrenching it felt to carry that emptiness. Would it have felt like that for his mother too? Was it just another way for Beron to inflict pain on her?

“He thought it was a neat solution,” Eris said, far too calmly. “It would most likely kill Helion, or incapacitate him. Or at the very least, it would ensure that Helion would never take Mother in.”

“But — “ Lucien protested, his mind flailing at any coherent speech. “Did Father not sense the mating bond before?”

“Helion employed some magical means, some sort of Day Court trickery to hide the bond. No one knew it ever existed, until, well.” Eris gestured vaguely at Lucien, the rest of his sentence dropping off into silence.

“Until what?” Lucien asked. When Eris stayed silent, Lucien grabbed his shoulders and shook him, as though he could jostle the answer loose. “Until what, Eris?”

“Until you,” Eris spat. “Father caught them because of you. He was away in Montesere, conducting extended negotiations, and when he came back, Mother was three months with child. She tried to explain away the timing, even got some of the healers to vouch for her. But Father knew.”

“He knew — he knew the baby wasn’t his,” Lucien said hoarsely, struggling to keep up as the implications kept slamming into him, wave after wave crashing over him, threatening to pull him under. His mother, forced to sever her own mating bond, trapped in Autumn under a High Lord who despised her. He didn’t dare ask what had become of the healers that had been caught lying on his mother’s behalf. “He knew I wasn’t his fucking son.”

It explained so much, and yet he couldn’t believe it. Beron Vanserra had dominated his life for centuries, tortured his mother, killed Jesminda, and the asshole wasn’t even his father?

“Is that why you all always called me a bastard?” he shouted, furious rage welling up inside him.

“Keep your voice down,” Eris snapped, then dropped his own strident voice down to a whisper. “None of our other brothers knew. If they suspected, they knew better than to say so.” He tipped his head back against the wall, as though the whole topic suddenly exhausted him.

“I’m surprised he kept me alive at all,” Lucien breathed, starting to feel dizzy.

“That was Mother’s doing. That was the bargain she got out of him,” Eris said. “She would sever the bond with Helion, in exchange for your life being spared.”

“Mother did that for me?” Lucien’s shoulder hit the wall, and he slumped against it, suddenly feeling like he couldn’t keep his balance. “She could have been free. She could have left Father.”

“You know she’d never have done that,” Eris said firmly. “Not when the rest of us were still in Autumn.” He gripped Lucien’s shoulders, fire blazing in his eyes. “You are not to blame yourself for what happened. I forbid it.”

“You’re not my High Lord,” Lucien said, though the implications of that, too, boggled his mind. He’d assumed he had no court affiliation, no particular ties to anywhere. He’d renounced Autumn. He’d left Spring. He’d put the Night Court far behind him. Did this mean he belonged in Day?

You are a bastard, you don’t belong anywhere.

“How can I not blame myself, Eris? I ruined her life,” he wailed, pressing his fist to the glass, frowning to see that his skin was still shining, now realizing that the odd glowing magic made perfect sense. Of course — it was Day Court magic. How had he been too stupid to see it?

“Don’t you dare take that on yourself. It was Beron who ruined things,” Eris said savagely, “and I got his boot off our necks. We’re free, Lucien. And so is Mother.”

Lucien stared at him. “Do you think Mother — do you think Helion —“ He swiveled towards the bubble column, wanting to plunge back into it, to get back to his mother. Did Helion even know? Had she just been telling him?

Eris’s hand shot out, sinking into the fabric at the back of Lucien’s shirt and balling it up into a fist. “No. Leave them. She’s been trying to contact Helion ever since Beron’s death. She’s finally getting a chance to explain what happened. Maybe the bastard will finally listen.”

“Is that why you’ve been mad at Helion? Because he wouldn’t answer Mother’s letters?”

“I’m angry with him for endangering her in the first place, for putting her in this awful position,” Eris said bitterly. “I’m angry with him that he never even questioned it. Never put any pieces together. He let that broken bond consume him, plunge him into a life of mindless pleasure.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Lucien said plaintively, clutching at his own ribs. “You’re in no position to judge him.”

“Perhaps not,” Eris said, loosening the fist clenched in Lucien’s shirt. “But she was so hopeful, with Beron gone, and he froze her out completely. I watched her hope turn into sorrow. I watched her go into mourning again.”

“You should have told me sooner,” Lucien said miserably. “I would have done something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know! Gone to Day, tried to talk to him? Be an emissary?” Lucien snapped. “I don’t know if it would have worked, but you didn’t give me a chance to try. When were you planning on telling me all this?”

“I wasn’t going to tell you anything. I was going to leave it up to Mother. Until tonight happened, anyway. I figured I’d better tell you, before word spread. Everyone is going to be talking about this tomorrow,” Eris complained.

Lucien was about to answer when the door to the ballroom was flung open, and a grim-looking Cresseida rushed inside. She strode in rapidly, swiveling around to look in every direction, then saw that Lucien and Eris were both staring and made a beeline for them.

“Have you seen her?” she barked. “Did she come back here?”

“Who, Cress?” Lucien asked with concern, though he had a sinking feeling that he already knew. A group of sentries fanned out into the room, all looking to their High Lady for their next instructions. 

Cresseida sighed, then answered. “Elain Archeron. She is missing.”

Chapter Text

We had a deal.

Lucien’s heart pounded in his ears as he stood in the entrance to the grand ballroom, mechanical eye clicking out of control. His hand on his ribs trembled, the empty hollow ache squeezing inside him. He’d once been able to feel her there, even when he wished he couldn’t, even when he cursed the day he’d ever met her. It had been a grasping, desperate sort of comfort, the reality that she was out there, existing, even if they were far apart - until that too had been wrenched away.

Please let her be whole, and in no danger, and I’ll never ask for anything ever again.

Had the Mother rescinded Her end of the bargain?

It could be like last time, he thought darkly. He would tear through the palace to find Elain, expend all his magic, despairing and worried out of his mind, only to find there had never been danger. He would be the fool again, all the more so because he knew it was foolish.

But it would still be preferable to the alternative - Elain lost or in danger.

“You said you’ve checked all the wings of the palace?” he asked Cresseida.

“My sentries are completing a second sweep,” she confirmed, pausing to issue orders to a small contingent of guards, then turned back to him. “Tarquin is escorting Morrigan on their own search. So far, nothing.”

She truly could be in danger, then.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Eris snapped, “None of this is your problem, you know. You ought to stay out of it.”

Lucien sighed, not bothering to turn around. “This could derail the entire conference. I’m just trying to make sure nothing interferes—“

Eris spun him forcefully around. “Bullshit, Lucien.”

Lucien met his brother’s eyes, suppressing the instinct to flinch at the furious firepower within them. Eris was not Beron, would not lash out physically. “Fine. It’s bullshit. What do you want me to say?”

“That you’ll stop letting this happen. That you’ll stop jerking around on the end of her tether like a puppet. She broke the bond, now let her suffer the consequences,” Eris argued. His hand wrapped around Lucien’s arm, as though he would physically drag him away. “Let them call in her Illyrian brute of a husband to find her. Let them figure it out. You don’t need to get involved.”

Lucien jerked his arm away. “You’re right. And I don’t give a shit,” he snapped.

Eris let out a frustrated huff. “The way I let you speak to me, a High Lord of Prythian. I ought to teach you some respect.”

“You ought to earn some,” Lucien grumbled.

Eris bared his teeth, snarling, “Be careful, little brother. My patience is not unlimited.”

“And my patience is long gone,” Lucien shouted, then dropped his voice down to a hoarse whisper when he saw curious onlookers turning in his direction. “You hid everything from me. For centuries. You may have had your reasons, but don’t expect me to rejoice in it. So either help me salvage this conference by finding Elain, or get the fuck out of my way.”

Eris’s pale face flushed. “I’m trying to help you, you ungrateful asshole. Just like I always have, and you’ve never listened. You’re going to get involved with her again, despite giving up your life for her already, despite all the harm done to you, and it’ll be your ruin. She’s married now, or did you forget that?”

Lucien’s jaw clenched. “I’m just trying to find her, Eris.”

“You’re trying to find trouble, is what you’re doing,” Eris snapped. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish? Even if it all worked out perfectly, even if she left Azriel for you, what do you think is going to happen? She has to go home to her sisters sometime. Would you crawl back to Rhysand, offering up your dignity on a platter, so you can let them all stomp on you some more?”

“Eris —“

“We lost you. For years,” Eris hissed, his eyes blazing with anger. “Haven’t you been through enough? Do you think I want you to rip your heart out all over again?”

Lucien took a shuddering breath, putting a hand on Eris’s shoulder. “None of that is going to happen.”

Eris glared at him. “Just you make sure that it doesn’t.” Then he stepped back, as though self-conscious about having let so much slip, announcing, “I’m going to go check on Mother.”

Lucien nodded, his heart in his mouth, and turned back to the doorway, the air around him growing suddenly chilly as Eris stalked away.

The room blurred around him, Cresseida’s orders to the guards mingling with the drumbeat of footsteps and the joyous dance music still ringing out from the lower ballroom, where the party was going on undisturbed. Lucien’s eye whirred, scanning the room and doorway for clues that he knew weren’t there, then unfurled wide when a shimmer in the air caught his attention.

Of course. There are glamoured servants everywhere. He felt like a fool to have forgotten.

He turned, to ask Cresseida another question, but she was talking to Tarquin and Morrigan, who had just returned from an apparently fruitless search of the palace, and several of her courtiers were gathered around also, butting in where they surely weren’t wanted. They would find some way to wrangle this situation to their advantage, undermine Cresseida and Tarquin’s authority. After all, if they couldn’t protect guests in their own palace, what kind of rulers were they?

Lucien resolutely turned away, having no desire at all to interact with any of them, and peered out through the ballroom doors. His thoughts were racing, and he tried to slow down, actually think through what might have happened. If Elain had overheard Mor’s insults towards her, if she’d torn out of the ballroom distraught, tears clouding her vision, she might have bypassed the fae-lit corridors that led up to the palace proper. Perhaps she’d stumbled into the servants’ halls?

He let his mechanical eye scan the corridor, looking for the shimmer of magic in the air again. “Forgive me, friend, I must trouble you a moment,” he called softly.

The shimmer wobbled at the edge of his vision, and he quickly reassured it, “I know you’re not meant to be seen, or to talk to visitors, and you’re probably very busy with your work for the evening. But I’m afraid this is a pressing matter.” He stepped fully out into the hall, letting the clamshell doors of the grand ballroom clatter emphatically shut behind him. “You would be doing the High Lord and Lady an enormous favor.”

The glamoured faerie let out a little gasp, a sweet high-pitched sound, which he took as encouragement. He took a few tentative steps forwards, then crouched down so that he was at eye level with where he guessed the faerie’s eyes might be. “There is a lady, a High Fae female, that may have gone down below, gotten lost in your wing of the palace. She would be upset, perhaps even afraid, and we want to find her as quick as may be.”

He got no response, not that he expected one, so he went on, “I’m sure you know those corridors much better than I. Do you think you could search for her? See that she finds her way back to her guest suite, if it’s not too much trouble?”

There was a long pause, and then a girlish voice answered, in a hushed whisper, “Auntie says we shouldn’t get involved in High Fae affairs. It’s too dangerous.”

“Auntie is right,” Lucien conceded, for it was dangerous for lesser fae. He knew that pain all too well. “You’re wise to listen to her. I would never ask this of you if it weren’t vital.”

He conjured his little bag of gold coins from the pocket realm where he’d stashed it, then fished two out and held them out into the air. “One for you, and one for your Auntie, for your trouble.”

The air warmed around his hand, and then the two coins shimmered and vanished. “Shall I tell you when I’ve found her, my lord?”

“I would appreciate that, just so I know the matter is settled. And please, just call me Lucien,” he said. He knew better than to ask for his helper’s name - it was dangerous enough that she’d breached protocol to speak to him, without him also knowing which of the palace’s myriad servants she was. Not that Tarquin or Cresseida would care, but some of their underlings might. The last thing he wanted to do was cause trouble for anyone.

“Thank you, my lor— I mean, Lucien,” the girl said softly.

“No, it is I who should be thanking you,“ he assured her quickly. “You’re the one doing me a favor.”

The presence seemed to nod, or curtsey, and then she was off, scampering down the corridor.

Lucien sighed, with relief and consternation, and shoved back up to stand, suddenly feeling drained. He braced a hand on the wall, trying to reel himself back in.

“Here you are. Get back in there, Vassa’s pissed that you up and left,” Jurian’s voice called out behind him.

Fuck. He’d made them all worry, first leaving abruptly to go talk to Eris, and then disappearing from the ballroom entirely. He hadn’t done anything wrong, exactly, but he knew how it looked. Lucien knew that it was just out of concern for him, that it was truly worry and not anger, but Vassa’s temper was magnificent to behold, once she really got going. He didn’t envy Jurian for being on the receiving end of it, even if Jurian did seem to enjoy it.

“Thanks, just tell her I’ll be just a minute,” he called back weakly.

The general strode towards him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Either we both go in, or we both stay out here.”

Lucien’s shoulders slumped. There had been a time, when he’d been truly despondent, when the temptation to just put himself out of his misery had been overwhelming. His friends had gone above and beyond for him, making sure he was never alone for too long, clearing the house of all weapons and even the sharper kitchen knives, sleeping by his side at night, on the floor if they had to.

We lost you. For years.

He wouldn’t go back to that, no matter what happened.

He swallowed hard and turned, and met Jurian’s eyes. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“Sure,” Jurian said, his grip unwavering. “In that case, why don’t you come be fine inside, with the rest of us.”

Lucien gave in, seeing that Jurian would brook no argument, and let himself be steered back into the ballroom.

Jurian had only just gotten the ballroom door open and Lucien inside it when Tarquin rushed up to them, his face drawn with worry. “Lucien. Good. I was hoping you could help us.”

“Of course. Whatever you need,” Lucien said.

“I understand this is incredibly awkward,” Tarquin went on, nervously eyeing Jurian before turning back to Lucien, his strong hands clasped together as though praying. “But you have surely heard that the Archeron girl has disappeared, and thus far we’ve been unable to track her.”

Lucien nodded, half-tempted to tell Tarquin that he’d enlisted help, but decided against it. He couldn’t risk endangering the little female or her auntie. What if some overzealous sentry got it in his head to score a promotion by hauling in a rule breaker? What if Cato or Marcus overheard?

“Maybe Azriel’s taught her a few tricks,” Jurian commented. “Maybe his shadows are hiding her.”

Tarquin’s eyes widened as he considered the possibility, but Lucien frowned. “I don’t think the shadows would approach her. Not from what I saw, anyway.”

“That was before they got together,” Jurian pointed out.

“We don’t actually know that,” Lucien said, grimacing. He didn’t think Elain had already become intimate with Azriel before that fateful Solstice night, but what did he know? What those shadows did, and with whom, was emphatically none of his business.

Tarquin nudged at the ruby crown on his head, as though its weight was pressing down upon him. “This whole matter is most unpleasant. The sooner it can be resolved, the better.” He looked at Lucien hopefully. “I know your bond is severed, but is there any way —”

“What? No. Don’t ask that of him,” Jurian snapped. “Don’t even mention it.”

“It’s all right,” Lucien said quickly. It wasn’t all right, not really, but he hated the thought that they were all censoring themselves around him, avoiding bringing up the bond or Elain. “But it isn’t possible. You can’t tug on a severed connection.” He gave Tarquin a wavering smile. “Sorry.”

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Tarquin stammered, bracing his hands on Lucien’s arms. “We should have turned her away when she first arrived. We should never have put you through this at all, much less asked you such an intrusive thing. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I do. You don’t want to see anyone hurt, and you want to avoid a major diplomatic incident,” Lucien said. “My history with Elain is what it is, but I still don’t want to see her hurt or worse.”

Tarquin shook his head. “This is all most distressing.” Then he was called away, leaving Lucien and Jurian standing in the doorway.

Lucien glanced over at Morrigan, who was standing stiffly by herself, arms crossed defensively across her chest. When she saw him, her shoulders pulled up tightly, as though bracing for a confrontation. She looked just as Lucien remembered, from those awkward Velaris nights where he would be coming out of Rhys’s office, having filed his reports, never quite certain whether she would greet him or not. She’d never been unkind, exactly, which was as good as he could expect.

It was the one silver lining in all of his misery, which he’d quickly come to appreciate once the bond had been broken. He couldn’t imagine living out his immortal life, awkwardly perched on the couch at Rhys’s Solstice parties, faking a smile and chuckling along as they cracked “jokes” at his expense that were really thinly veiled insults and threats.

If I’d wanted that, I could have just gone back to Autumn. He wondered how offended Rhys’s circle would be, if they could hear that comparison.

Jurian took a step towards Morrigan, but Lucien quickly pulled him back, not relishing the thought of that interaction. Instead, he just nodded in her direction, relieved when she jerked her chin in a terse nod back.

With that over with, he got back down to the lower ballroom, accepting all of the concerned queries and scoldings his friends heaped upon him, ate and drank and danced. He looked in vain for his mother, or Eris. They were both gone, along with Helion, and he dared not speculate on what argument they might be having. The question of where Elain was, and why it was taking so damn long to find her, tickled at the back of his mind, but he tried to ignore it, shove it aside.

Then there was a shimmer in the corner of his vision, a hint of a glamoured presence, and his heart leaped back into his throat. He excused himself from his group of friends, then followed it up the bubble elevator and out across the upper ballroom.

But it was only when they were out in the corridor that the girl’s voice spoke to him. “She’s back in her room, my l— Lucien. Safe and everything. Come with me, I can show you.”

“Well, that is good news,” he declared, a profound relief settling over him, and he followed where she was leading, his mechanical eye buzzing as it strove to keep up with the ever-shifting glamour flitting ahead of him. He wouldn’t let Elain see him, of course — just confirm she was back in her suite, safe and sound. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“No, not at all,” the girl exclaimed, and he imagined that she was beaming at him through the glamour, or clasping her hands in delight, as they walked, more or less together. “She’d hurt her ankle a little, so we brought her into our quarters, bandaged her up and mended her dress, and we had a lovely tea party.”

Lucien could have burst out laughing, the sheer incredulousness of it all forcefully striking him. The image of Elain sipping tea with a room full of lesser fae, having a party, was far too enticing.

“You did well,” he murmured to his young companion. “It sounds like she couldn’t have been in better hands.”

“Auntie always knows what to do,” the faerie said sagely.

“I’d like to meet your auntie sometime,” Lucien said.

He imagined that the girl smiled up at him. “Maybe you will.”

Voices echoed towards them, Cresseida and her sentries, and Lucien turned to the girl, concerned that the High Lady would be able to see her glamoured presence. “I can find my way from here. I really can’t thank you enough.”

A small, warm hand briefly pressed into his, rough as though it was made out of tree bark. An Urisk? Lucien had known a few, back in Spring, and couldn’t help but wonder if there was some connection.

He smiled, and squeezed the faerie’s hand in farewell, waiting until she’d gone back down the corridor, before following the voices that were getting louder and more strident as he approached.

“ — will check the lower halls again,” Tarquin’s deep voice was saying. “Our sentries will be thorough. You’re certain she didn’t leave the palace?”

“She wouldn’t be that stupid,” Mor snapped back. “She knows she’s not meant to go out unattended.”

Lucien shook his head at that, at how it made Elain sound like a naughty youngling who ought to be sent to bed without her supper. Was that how her circle truly thought of her?

“Obviously she doesn’t,” Cresseida said tartly.

“Cress, please, we must keep things civil,” Tarquin pleaded in a low voice.

“No, I will not be civil,” Cresseida announced, and Lucien cringed at the awkwardness, the open disagreement in front of the sentries, Mor, the courtiers and everyone. “This is madness, to have the palace all in an uproar.” She whirled on Mor, clenching her fists angrily. “Was this the Night Court’s intention? To disrupt our conference, derail the proceedings before they could even begin?”

“Cresseida,” Tarquin exclaimed. “High Lady, please.”

Mor went terribly pale, her lips trembling in fury. “How dare you. No, this was not the intention.”

Lucien quickened his pace, hoping to get to them before the argument went much further. He meant to make his presence look incidental, and not like he was sneaking up on them or stalking his rejected mate through the palace, but now they were all too preoccupied to care.

“High Lord, if I may,” another voice interrupted, “you ought to question the lesser faeries. If her shoes were found in one of their corridors, perhaps they seized her for some nefarious act.”

“Marcus, you are out of order,” Tarquin said sternly, hastily reassuring Mor, “There’s no evidence of foul play whatsoever.”

Marcus. Lucien rolled his eyes, recalling the snobbish, contrarian courtier whose disgust for lesser faeries rivaled Beron Vanserra’s. Only his father Cato’s attitude was more insufferable.

“Why were her belongings discarded, then?” another voice challenged — Cato, perhaps. “Are you certain your servants can be trusted, High Lord?”

“They can be trusted,” Cresseida answered for him, every word clipped, like she was restraining herself from drowning them on the spot. “And you will address both of us, when we are both present.”

“My apologies, Lady,” Marcus said smoothly.

“High Lady,” Tarquin seethed, his own voice dropping ominously.

Lucien rounded the corner to find them all clumped around a door at the end of the hallway. “The door,” he called to them, pointing. Surely someone had thought of knocking, to see if Elain had come back?

They all gaped at him, as though he’d uttered a monstrous curse, and then Morrigan grabbed for the door handle, wrenching it open.

And then Elain herself appeared, utterly relaxed in a soft robe and nightdress, a book tucked under her arm, her golden curls pulled back from her rosy smiling face.

There were gasps and murmurs from the group, and Mor shrieked and rushed forward, but Lucien saw and heard none of it as he hastily turned away. He’d gotten the confirmation he needed, and now he needed to go away. Far away. He didn’t need to see her in her gods-damned nightdress, by the Cauldron.

He ducked behind the nearest wall, breathing hard, then allowed himself a sigh of relief before briskly walking down the corridor.

Well, he thought, addressing the Mother, looks like our deal’s back on, after all.

Chapter Text

“What do you think, Lucien?”

Lucien blinked several times, trying in vain to clear the haze of swirling thoughts from his exhausted, addled mind, and gave his friends a wobbly grin. “I think I need another cup of coffee.”

Jurian snickered, passing the carafe across the table, and Lucien poured with more or less steady hands. But his nerves were anything but steady, his mind spinning out in so many directions, confusion and worry and relief all mixed up together. He hadn’t seen his mother again after he’d found Elain, and he both desperately wanted to talk to her, and dreaded what he might hear, in equal measure.

He took a bracing, bitter sip of coffee, then hastily reached for the milk to temper it. He had to put his own personal shit aside, focus on the matter at hand. It was almost a welcome distraction, despite the seriousness of the issue, for the last thing he wanted to do was dwell on his own personal problems. “In all seriousness, I think it’s bullshit,” he said, “and I think they all know it.”

“That’s what Cress and I think, too,” Tarquin said, shoving aside his uneaten breakfast, gesturing towards Cresseida’s empty chair. She had skipped breakfast entirely, and was already hard at work despite the early hour, finalizing the seating arrangements and the day’s schedule of topics, and fielding last minute requests from the delegates — and objections, like the ones lodged by their own recalcitrant courtiers. “It is a difficult problem.”

“It’s not difficult at all. Tell them to go to hell,” Vassa spat. She was lovely as usual in her silk green gown, and Lucien straightened the lapels of the linen shirt he’d chosen to match. “Such insolence and brazen disrespect should not be tolerated. This so called complaint is downright insulting.”

Jurian shrugged one shoulder, as though being insulted was so common an occurrence that it failed to register with him, so Lucien jumped in. “The law of hospitality supersedes all other considerations. Any guest of the High Lord’s must be treated with cordiality, their safety assured, regardless of any other status.” He looked at Tarquin forthrightly. “That includes lesser fae, if a Peregryn even fits that description.”

“So what if he does. Vesper has the same rights and dignity as anyone else,” Vassa exclaimed, her beautiful face flush with fury. “How dare these so-called traditionalists insist on his absence?”

“Oh, but don’t forget, he can attend. He just has to make himself invisible, and not speak or have opinions, or any influence on the outcome,” Jurian said dryly. He poured himself a shot of coffee and downed it in one gulp, swiping his forearm carelessly across his lips. “And you know we’ll be next. If Peregryns are not welcome, lowly humans will be even less so.”

“All of that is unacceptable,” Vassa declared. Her magic simmered just beneath the surface, making the liquid in the cup in front of her start to bubble. “That is the whole purpose of this conference.”

“Which Cato’s faction knows full well. That is their true objection,” Lucien fretted. “They seek to undermine this entire endeavor.”

“We will not let it happen,” Tarquin assured them, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. “But we must tread somewhat carefully. If the council walks out, refuses to ratify any agreement, it cannot take effect as law in Summer.”

“This is where the bulk of the humans in Prythian live,” Vassa fumed. “Exactly where these reforms are needed most.” She glared at Tarquin, who seemed to shrink back, unused to having her wrath directed at him. “Why do you tolerate this check on your authority? Are you not the High Lord? Is your rule not law?”

“I am. It is. But I have tried to rule with the people, not over them,” Tarquin stammered. “We have sought to make things more equal.” He sighed heavily, fiddling with the simple silver crown on his brow. “All my attempts have only backfired.”

Jurian leaned back in his chair, crossing an ankle over a knee, saying dryly, “Most people would rather be ruled by one tyrant, rather than a whole bloody council of them.”

Lucien’s mechanical eye clicked at him in disbelief. Jurian knew firsthand just how devastating and painful being ruled by a tyrant could be — hadn’t he spent several centuries trapped by one? “By that line of argument, we ought to have no High Lords, just a High King,” he said darkly. “And we all know who’d take that position.”

“Cauldron forbid,” Tarquin said quietly. “Rhysand has already shown what he’d do with such power. Our territories and people suffered, for the sake of his secret city. I shudder to think what he’d do, the next time his interests are threatened, if he truly ruled over us.”

Lucien could only nod in agreement. That was why they’d formed the Consortium, after all — it was a way to circumvent Rhys’s influence. “Having the power spread out is a necessity. It’s the only thing that prevents anyone becoming a tyrant.” He heartily wished Autumn had had such a system, to prevent Beron from being quite so cruel and wicked.

Beron. Not Father. He was still getting used to it. Finding out that the male he’d hated and feared all his life had not been his father was shocking, made him furious, but the more Lucien contemplated it, the more relieved he was. It explained so many strange things about his life and upbringing, incidents that he’d once blamed himself for. This revelation cut him loose, freed him from having to uphold the Vanserra legacy, or revile it. He did not share that bastard’s blood, nor his magic, and it was liberating.

Tarquin was giving him a grateful smile. “That is my thought exactly, Lucien. Being blessed with magic, through birth or accident, does not make one entitled to lead others, dictate their lives and choices. It ought not to, anyway.”

“Perhaps not, in an ideal world. But no other High Lord has such scruples, and no human queen, either,” Vassa said. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? You’re the most generous and moral among us, Tarquin. You’re the one abdicating your power, when you’re the one who ought most to be wielding it.”

“You’re too kind, Vassa —”

“No. You’re too kind, and it will end badly,” Vassa snapped. “The power will flow to those who would abuse it, and my people will suffer for it. So will the lesser fae, and anyone else who doesn’t have magic.”

“We’re not going to let that happen,” Lucien hastily reassured her, reaching out his hand for hers, massaging his thumb over her fingers. She huffed a sigh, but accepted the small gesture of comfort. “Cato and his ilk are obnoxious, but practical. We just have to find the proper angle, the right incentive for them to cooperate, and they’ll back down in the end. Cresseida became High Lady over their objections, surely this is no different.”

“They still don’t fully acknowledge her,” Jurian pointed out, reaching for the coffee pot again.

“They’re testing, I think. They want to see what they can get away with,” Tarquin said.

Lucien sat back, mulling it over. Part of him wanted to say fuck it, to just go ahead with the conference as if nothing happened, but he knew it couldn’t be that simple. This provocation required some sort of answer — not goading Tarquin into overstepping his scruples, but not just giving in to bigotry, either.

“What was that Leith always said? About the council of merchants who governed his territory?” he asked finally.

Vassa looked at him with a guarded expression. He’d assured them all that he was fine, that Elain’s presence would not affect him, but his bringing up Elain’s father had clearly triggered her suspicions. But when Lucien just looked at her forthrightly, no hint of emotion on his features, she relented. “They were greedy and corrupt, and ineffective,” she said disdainfully. “They utterly failed to provide for their people. They had no provisions for alms for the needy. And other than running Children of the Blessed out of the villages, and keeping pirates from the docks, they made no attempt to keep law and order. Why, the ruffians who assaulted him, left him crippled, were never brought to justice.”

Elain witnessed that horror, lived with the consequences. Her whole life had been shaped by poverty and violence. Was that why she’d become so meek and timid, sought out a powerful warrior to protect her?

“Leith thought there ought to be a strict term of office,” Jurian said thoughtfully, “that council members were given a number of years, and then had to turn the reins over to others. And they could be removed, if they get too corrupt. That way no one accumulates too much influence.”

“That sounds like a recipe for chaos,” Vassa said in distaste.

“Perhaps, but it does have merit,” Tarquin said. “They would have to tread more carefully, keep sight of the needs and desires of the folk they ruled over. Perhaps that’s the solution.”

“Careful what you ask for,” Jurian said. “The folk in Leith’s territory hated faeries. One of his daughters killed one on sight, you’ll remember.” He rested a hand on Lucien’s shoulder, knowing that Andras’s fate still pained him.

Lucien sighed. “Feyre got over that irrational hatred. As did her sisters.”

“We need not discuss them,” Vassa said tartly, sliding out of her own seat and stalking up behind Lucien, pressing her warmth into his back, drawing her slender arms around his shoulders. “Far be it from me to speak ill of Leith’s daughters. Whatever I think of them and their choices, the issue at hand is the High Fae council. We can deal with the humans’ grievances against faeries later.”

“We could use this term limit idea as leverage,” Lucien suggested. “Bring it up with the Consortium leaders, just like we did with the High Lady position.”

Tarquin broke out into a broad grin, catching Lucien’s meaning. “Cato and his folk would feel obliged to stay, to negotiate favorable terms for themselves.”

Lucien smiled in return, his brain finally kicking into gear, the thought of outmaneuvering Tarquin’s bigoted courtiers making him gleeful. “Don’t put it on the schedule as a separate meeting. Include it as just one of the issues. That way they won’t be able to walk out without wondering what they’re missing.”

“Are we sure we even want them to stay?” Vassa asked. “Wouldn’t this all be easier without them?”

“Perhaps in the short term. But what we want is a full ratification, not pretty words and empty promises,” Tarquin reminded her. “We want the matter settled, once and for all. That means we need their participation, however unwilling.” He held out a hand, and there was a shimmer of magic as a blank parchment and quill pen appeared. “I will message Cresseida. If she approves of our plan, which I think she will, she can add it to the schedule where she sees fit.” He stood up, nodding to Lucien and Jurian, then inclining his head respectfully to Vassa, as her rank demanded, before departing.

Vassa leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Lucien’s cheek, murmuring, “You’re taking all of this far too calmly.”

Lucien leaned into her, blithely shrugging. “I’ve dealt with Cato’s bullshit before.”

“I didn’t mean just Cato. I meant everything,” Vassa said. “Your mother and Helion. Elain going missing. Elain being here at all, in the first place. You ought to be far more agitated. Angry, even.”

“What would the point of that be? It wouldn’t solve anything,” Lucien said.

“The point would be that your feelings matter,” Vassa said. “When you were around your so-called mate, at that excuse for a civilized court, you tolerated far too much bullshit, pretended it wasn’t getting to you, or just avoided the problem entirely. And all it did was lead to worse treatment.”

Lucien sighed. “You’re right. I just didn’t have another option.”

“You did. You just didn’t want to take it,” Vassa insisted. She slid onto his lap, smoothly brushing the fabric of her gown out of the way so that she could drape herself comfortably over him. He braced his arms around her, settling in for a proper scolding, which was one of the main ways Vassa showed she cared about him. “You valued the bond above your well-being. You let them, let her, treat you like shit. You censored yourself, made yourself smaller, to make them happy, and they still didn’t respect you.”

It was all true, and yet Lucien couldn’t imagine having done otherwise. For him to walk away from his Cauldron granted mate would have felt like a sacrilege, like cursing out the Mother Herself. His eyes slid downwards, the vibrant green and embroidered gold of Vassa’s dress blurring into a vague impression. “I just don’t want to ruin the conference with my own personal baggage.”

Vassa grasped his chin, tilting his face up to hers, and he blinked his good eye rapidly, not wanting any tears to fall on the silk of her dress. She reached up a warm hand and brushed at his cheek. “Don’t take that on yourself. If anyone ruins this conference, it will not be you. You’ve put up with enough already. If you’d rather not see her, we can make that happen.”

Lucien looked into Vassa’s beautiful face, beholding the fire in her sparkling eyes, feeling his own fire called up in response to it. “I can’t avoid her forever,” he said honestly. Indeed, he hadn’t been able to totally avoid her even in a crowded ballroom, with all of his friends there to distract him. What would happen once the conference got going, once they started debating in earnest?

Jurian pushed back from the table. “I’m going to finish getting ready, then I think Vassa and I ought to go in first. Make sure there are no more unpleasant surprises.” He flashed Lucien a smirking grin. “If anyone else from the Night Court decides to make an appearance, I’ll get Eris to blast them.”

“Please don’t,” Lucien said automatically. Even though that did sound appealing, in the abstract, the last thing they needed was an actual brawl.

“No promises,” Jurian yelled over his shoulder, as he retreated towards the bathing chamber.

Lucien turned back to Vassa. “Everyone’s worried about me seeing Elain, but you two are the ones we need to keep separate from her.”

Vassa huffed, “We are just making sure she doesn’t hurt you any more than she has already.”

“I know. And I’m grateful,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But I’m all right. Truly. You don’t have to try to keep me away from her, or prove a point, or anything.” He braced his hands on Vassa’s shoulders. “You aren’t here as my personal guards, you’re here as the Queen and King Consort of Scythia, representing your people. If anything, I should be watching out for you, not the other way around. You have far more to lose here than I do.”

“That may be true,” Vassa said, “but I’m not going to lose you, on top of everything.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m not going anywhere,” Lucien assured her, and kissed her to prove it.

“I’m holding you to that.” Vassa rose, straightening her gown, and without thinking much of it, Lucien flicked a finger at the wrinkled silk, smoothing it back out with a touch of his magic. Vassa looked down at herself, then beamed at him, asking, “Is that part of your Day Court magic?”

Lucien froze, his fingers still in midair. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“You should really talk to Helion, you know,” she said, hands on her hips. “I bet there’s all sorts of things you could learn about your magic.”

Did he want to learn about his magic? “You saw how he acted towards me last night. I doubt he’ll want to teach me.”

Vassa dismissed that objection with a wave of her hand. “That was before he knew you were his son.”

“I’m not his son. Not in any way that matters,” Lucien protested.

Vassa looked incredulous. “You could be the heir to the Day Court. I’d say that matters.” Lucien must have looked horrified, for she hastily added, “Isn’t that better than being the seventh son of Beron Vanserra?”

Lucien grimaced. She had a point. “But I didn’t grow up in Day. I’ve only visited a handful of times, and I have no idea of the politics. And I don’t want to rule over anyone, anyway,” he said glumly.

Vassa cupped his cheeks, smiling down at him. “No wonder you and Tarquin get along so well. Maybe you’ll find a strong High Lady who can rule for you.”

Lucien couldn’t even think of that possibility — that the magic of a foreign court would choose him, and that he would be expected to marry for political reasons —

He swallowed hard, feeling like the whole conversation was spiraling out of control, the implications of it all starting to overwhelm him. “Helion is a prolific lover. He probably has other offspring.”

“That’s another reason you should talk to him,” Vassa said. “He’s a good male, once you get to know him.” She patted his cheeks affectionately. “He fathered you, that’s one point in his favor.”

Lucien knew when he was defeated. “I need to talk to Mother first.”

“Do that. But don’t avoid Helion, either. And don’t pretend that your feelings aren’t affected by all of this. None of us believe it, anyway.” Vassa stepped back, making room for him to get up.

Lucien chuckled, and slid from the table. “What a tragedy. I’m supposed to be the Fox of Prythian, all stealth and cleverness. And here I’ve only fooled myself.”

Vassa laughed with him, then shoved him gently towards the door.

Chapter Text

Lucien shifted nervously on his feet, then raised his knuckles to rap at the door, frowning when it gave way, easing open into the darkened space, the air instantly warming and thickening around him. He nudged the door aside, then pressed it gently shut behind him, the muffled sound swallowed up by the uneasy silence.

“Mother?” He summoned a ball of light at his fingertips, peering into the suite for any sign of her. The room was stuffy and dim, but immaculate, her tray of breakfast sitting on the table undisturbed. He brushed his fingers against the teapot, coaxing the water back to a boil, the sweet aroma filling the air, then picked up the tray, calling, “Mother, are-are you well? Where are you?”

A bleary voice answered. “In here, Sunshine.”

Dread pressed on his heart as he pressed his fingers to the bedroom door. He moved gingerly, careful not to make startling noises, as he carefully eased his way into the bedroom, sliding the tray onto the little side table and then blinked in the intense darkness, his mechanical eye clicking until it zoomed in on the form slumped on the bed.

His panic spiked. ”Mother?“

His mother lifted her head, tilting herself up slightly, and his breath whooshed out of him in relief. He didn’t know what he’d expected to find, and couldn’t totally hide his worry from her as he tried to force his voice to come out casual. “Sorry if I disturbed you.”

She blinked slowly, then gave him a tear-stained, wobbly smile. “A little disturbance might do me good. And I did want to see you, darling. I’ve been anxious for you, what with… everything.”

“Don’t worry about me, I’m really fine,” Lucien assured her, his lips not quite able to form a smile in return. “I brought in your breakfast.”

Her pale hand fluttered between them, but she made no answer, and he regarded her for long moments with no words to say, only a worried knot pressing in the pit of his stomach. He’d had many bad days like this, when all he wanted to do was lie in bed and drift through the hours until sleep again claimed him, when he’d despaired of ever wanting to move again, and it pained him to see his gentle mother go through it. She deserved every happiness, not this oppressive sorrow.

He lowered himself to perch on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her. He cast about uselessly for what to say, for any question he could safely ask, any assurance or hope he could give her. Everything sounded glib and trifling in his mind. He clasped and unclasped his hands, resisting the urge to beg her to say something, anything, to help him understand. He wasn’t entitled to her thoughts or feelings, and what if it only made her more miserable?

“I’m surprised you are here, and not at the conference,” Áine said finally, her sweet voice cracking over the words, as though she had been screaming for long hours.

He winced at the roughness, then reached over to the breakfast tray to pour her a cup of cool water. “I’ll go down in a little while. I — this is more important.” He passed her the water, and she shoved up on her elbows and accepted it. She took a few obliging sips, but quickly handed it back to him. “But we can talk later, if you’d rather not —“

“No, Sunshine,” she whispered. “I do want to talk. I’ve been silent for far too long, and I owe you an explanation.”

“You don’t owe me anything. Not a gods-damned thing,” he said roughly. “You’ve sacrificed far too much for me already.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” his mother said, pushing herself to sit up fully, sliding back the unbound strands of her hair from her beautiful face, which was red and puffy from crying. “I brought you into this mess. Into danger. It was my duty to protect you.”

“But at what cost,” he protested, his mechanical eye clicking rapidly. “Gods, what you’ve suffered.”

“It is no more than I deserve,” she said softly.

“Why?” he burst out. “In a world full of wicked, selfish people, why should you deserve to suffer?”

“Oh, Lucien,” she murmured, brushing a hand languidly down his cheek, tracing his scars. He felt the roughness of her palm, the thick band of scars where she always dug in her nails so as to avoid crying in front of Beron, for there were few things that could more predictably spur the bastard to anger than the sight of his wife’s foolish tears, unbecoming of a Lady of Autumn. “I ought to have told you long ago. So much of this could have been avoided.”

“Will you tell me? If-if you want to,” he stammered.

“It is your story as well as mine. It was not right to keep it from you, even if it was for your own protection.” She sighed deeply, letting her hands drop limply into her lap. “You must be furious with me, Sunshine.”

“Not, not at all,” he hastened to assure her. “Surprised, yes. Confused. But not furious.” He shrugged helplessly. “Maybe at myself, for causing all this trouble.”

“You caused nothing. You were a blessing,” she said warmly, grabbing for his hand.

“You gave up your mating bond for me. I know how terrible that feels,” he said miserably.

“I know you do. And it pains me greatly,” she said, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “It was the only thing that would mollify Beron. He would have ripped me open, torn you from me, burned you alive and scattered your ashes. My innocent babe, my gift from the Mother.” A sob escaped from the depths of her throat, her fingers trembling in his. “I knew Helion was strong. I hoped he’d survive it. I told myself he would have chosen the same, that he would want our son to be protected.”

Lucien felt a strange warmth buzzing inside him, the very idea of a father who would care about him, sacrifice for him, making him dizzy. “You did what you had to do, Mother. I’m only sorry it was necessary.”

Áine let out a soft cry. “It would not have been necessary, had I been strong. Had I stood up to my family in the first place, and refused to marry Beron. Had I revealed my mating bond with Helion, given him a chance to claim me. My fate was sealed the day I capitulated, like any dutiful daughter would, sacrificed for my family’s fortunes. In that moment, I doomed us forever.”

Lucien swallowed the bile back down his throat. “And Helion never tried to save you?”

“He offered. Many times, over the years. Every interlude we stole together, he would beg me to reconsider. I always declined.” Her hand shook, and Lucien rubbed his thumb over hers, gently warming his palm in a way that he hoped would soothe her. “The rules of marriage are sacrosanct. One does not break up a family, not for anything.”

“But a Cauldron-granted mating bond would trump everything, wouldn’t it?”

“Helion could have possibly claimed me, as his mate, but not my sons with another High Lord. And I knew I couldn’t leave them.” She sighed heavily. “The other seasonal courts would have sided with Beron, for the sake of peace between neighbors. I would never have seen my sons again, or have any say in their upbringing.”

Lucien didn’t point out that she’d had very little influence on their lives as it was, that Beron wielded their children as leverage against her, and vice versa. It had always bothered the fucking bastard that Áine’s sons actually loved her, and he’d always done everything in his power to undermine that connection.

“I knew who Beron was, what he was, when I married him. I knew our marriage was a sham, a way to gain status and magic for his bloodline. And I knew exactly how much of a bastard he’d be, if I humiliated him publicly, by declaring my bond with another male. How he might take it out on my sons, just to hurt me. I’m only grateful we never had daughters.”

Lucien shuddered to think of how a sister of his might have suffered — it was too fraught a topic to even contemplate. “Would Helion have fought for you, if you’d wished it?”

“Yes,” Áine said fervently, clutching her free hand to her chest, “yes, he would have. He would have invoked the Blood Duel, if I’d let him. But I didn’t want war between our courts, Sunshine. I didn’t want others to lose their mates, or sons, in needless bloodshed, all for the sake of my selfish happiness.”

Lucien scooted a bit closer to her on the bed so that he could brace an arm around her back. “But now, with Beron gone, and all your sons grown, why should things not be different?” Anger seethed low in his gut at the thought of his mother having to suffer for one more moment, after a lifetime of it. “Why does Helion not fight for you now?”

She gaped at him in shock. “Sunshine, I broke the bond. I condemned him to centuries of misery and pain.”

“Only because you were forced to do so. If he truly loved you, he would suffer it gladly,” Lucien declared.

“He didn’t know that’s what was happening. I couldn’t get word to him,” she said sadly. “He thought — he thought I betrayed him. That I loved him no longer.”

Lucien scoffed, “He knew your husband was an abusive bastard. He should have realized that there was more to it.” He rubbed at his ribcage, where his own bond had once been. “Did he not seek you out, to see what had happened?”

“If he did, I never knew about it.” She pressed her hand over his. “Recall, darling, that he had no free access to me in Autumn, as you did with your own mate. And he was not a High Lord at the time, not even the heir. Beron would have killed him on sight, if he’d attempted some kind of grand gesture or rescue.”

Lucien hung his head, unable to argue. Beron would have taken a vicious pleasure in killing his wife’s mate, out of a jealous desire for revenge. “So he spent centuries thinking you spurned him.”

Áine nodded tearfully. “I don’t think he will ever forgive me. I shattered his soul, as he told me last night. He struggled for decades to come to terms with it, to put the severed bond firmly in the past. To revive it now would be painful beyond measure.” She let out a choked sob, burying her face in her hands. “I was foolish to think it could ever be different.”

“He is the one who’s being foolish,” Lucien fumed. “His mate is finally free, after centuries of torture. And it turned out she loved him all along. He would spurn that most precious gift, when he could have everything, when some of us —“ He broke off, breathing hard, struggling to get the words out. “He could have his happy ending, and he’s too busy feeling sorry for himself to see it.”

“Sunshine, please. That is uncharitable,” Áine said, lifting her face to his, her russet eyes blazing with a hint of fire.

“I can’t believe you’re defending him,” Lucien huffed. “After you told him all the truth, what you sacrificed, how you suffered, he should have fallen at your feet.”

“I could have killed him when I broke the bond. I did kill him, in a way,” she whispered. “He has no tie to me any more. No reason to return to me. Whatever love he had is turned to anger.”

“Anger at what,” Lucien said hotly.

“At having the bond severed suddenly, with no warning. At being denied his son and heir. He’s livid you grew up under his worst enemy, that you were tortured before his very eyes Under the Mountain and he didn’t know it was his son that suffered.”

“What could he have possibly done,” Lucien huffed. He wasn’t under any illusions that anyone would have been able to help him, even if they’d been willing. Only Rhys had had that kind of influence, and he certainly wouldn’t have wasted the effort on Lucien. No, he’d looked like he enjoyed the spectacle, and that was the male Helion had chosen in friendship. Did he know that Rhys had threatened Áine’s life, used her as leverage against her own son?

His mother shrugged her thin shoulders. “I don’t know, my love. He was a brand new High Lord, trapped Under the Mountain, his people in peril, his powers depleted. And he was cautious to avoid invoking her wrath, after how badly she punished Day for his father’s rebellion.”

“Poor Hyperion,” Lucien murmured. “Now he was an honorable male.” He jolted, realizing that the former High Lord of Day was his grandfather.

“Helion is honorable. You do not know him,” Áine said, a bit of anger in her tone. Good — at least she was angry, not despondent. “That is one of my great regrets, that you could not grow up with his guidance. He would have had so much to teach you, so much wisdom to share. And you could have known him as he was — before.”

Before the broken bond made him bitter, Lucien supposed she meant. “I just wish I could have seen you happy.”

“I know, Sunshine.” She kissed his scarred cheek. “However Helion feels about me, you are still his son. His heir.”

Lucien shifted uncomfortably. “We don’t know that for certain.”

“We do. He does.” She traced her fingers idly on the bedspread’s batik pattern. “Is that really such a terrible thing, to have a court to call your own?”

“Day isn’t mine, Mother. I wouldn’t want it.”

“Don’t be so hasty. It is your heritage. Maybe your destiny,” Áine said. “We ignore the Cauldron’s wishes at our own peril.” Her fingers curled up into the bedspread. “Perhaps it is punishing me for my rebellion.”

“No, Mother,” Lucien winced, hating to hear her talk so. “Maybe Helion will come to his senses.”

“He will do whatever’s right,” she shrugged. “He is wise and clever, a clear head on his shoulders. You are so much like him, darling.”

It was clearly meant as a compliment, and Lucien felt like an ass to even quibble with her. But he said bitterly, “I have better taste in friends, I think.”

She huffed a hollow, echoing laugh. “I won’t deny it. But I don’t recall him being close with the Night Court, not until after we — until I broke things off. Perhaps I drove him in that direction.” She laid a warm hand over Lucien’s. “I’ve had centuries to come to terms with the truth of it all. He’s only had a few hours. Please try not to judge him too harshly.”

Lucien sighed, knowing when he ought to give up the fight. “If you have forgiven him, what right do I have to hang on to my grievances.”

“You have every right. But I would hate to see it,” Áine said. “There’s been so much wasted time already.”

“Story of my life,” Lucien muttered. He always felt like he was running from something, or running towards something, but never quite got there. “And,” he added apologetically, “speaking of wasted time, I’ve probably got to get downstairs."

The last thing he wanted to do was to face a roomful of gossipy fae who had witnessed his mother and Helion together. Eris would handle the wilder rumors, but he was bound to get uncomfortable questions, too. Questions he would have no idea how to answer.

And if what if Elain was down there? What if she wasn’t?

“Give my apologies to Tarquin and Cresseida, and let Eris know I’ll come down later. I just need to pull myself together.”

“You and me both. I’m a wreck,” he said. He meant for it to sound like a joke, but his voice caught in his throat as he said it.

“You’re entitled to be, given all that’s happened.” His mother squeezed his hand. “I’m grateful you were willing to listen.” He looked down, feeling like if he tried to speak, tears would come spilling out instead, and she tugged him close so that she could kiss his forehead. “Whatever happens with your father, with your queen and your mate and the conference and all of it, you have made me proud, Sunshine.”

Lucien said brokenly, “But I’ve only brought you sorrow, Mother.”

“No. You’ve brought me the greatest joy. Whatever sorrow I feel pales in comparison.” She held his face, making him look at her. “I don’t regret for a moment that I brought you into this world. My life is better for having you in it, and if I could go back in time, I would make all the same choices, without question.” She squeezed his hands one last time. “Now go, and have your conference. Your people are counting on you.”

He nodded tearfully, all of his words jumbling up on his tongue, and obeyed.

Chapter Text

“Ah, there you are. We were debating sending a search party,” Tarquin declared, his pinched expression softening with relief as Lucien approached. The High Lord and Lady were poised outside the meeting room doors, a small contingent of attendants clustered around them. A few of the courtiers snickered at the remark, apparently recalling the drama of last night, but a harsh glare from Cresseida quickly silenced them.

“Sorry. Just taking care of some personal business,” Lucien said, grimacing at having to say so in front of everyone. So often his personal business put him on display, subject to everyone’s comments and judgment. He inclined his head to Cresseida, always mindful to show her proper deference, then gestured towards the double doors. “Shall we?”

Cress nodded resolutely, extending her hand, and the doors swung open, the sounds of conversing and laughter and clinking glasses swelling to a roar, then immediately hushing into a respectful low hum as the High Lord and Lady made their entrance.

Lucien’s mechanical eye clicked and buzzed rapidly, scanning the room for sight of his friends, mapping out who was conversing, and who was glaring or pointedly avoiding one another. The room had been laid out in concentric half-circles, with a speaker’s podium placed at the center, and tables apportioned for each court’s delegates, but almost no one had taken their seats, preferring to mill about and prolong the reprieve before the real work of the conference got started.

But his eyes were drawn to one table nestled in the corner, where two people were seated together, talking in earnest. And Lucien’s heart twisted when he saw who it was.

He desperately willed his eyes not to stare, rapidly turning away from the sight of Elain Archeron, perched at the Night Court’s little table, ethereally lovely in a simple silk lavender gown, her pale cheeks flushed with healthy color, her curls adorned with star-shaped orchids tucked into expertly woven braids that framed her beautiful face like a princess’s crown.

The effect somehow reminded him of Feyre — not sharp, leering Feyre in her Night Court finery, but younger, happier, human Feyre, flitting merrily about the Spring Court in those waning days of the curse, back when she still might have fallen in love, back when their ordeal Under the Mountain could have been avoided. But as Elain bent her head in conversation, earnestly talking to the male beside her, it struck him again how different she was than either of her sisters, than almost anyone he’d ever met, actually. There was something light about her very presence, like a ray of gentle sunshine.

His eyes met Tamlin’s from across the room, and he braced himself for his old friend’s reaction. But Tamlin regarded him with perfect composure, seemingly unbothered by an Archeron’s presence, and Lucien barely had time to sigh with relief before Kallias clapped him on the shoulder.

“Well met, old friend. How’s your boy doing?” Lucien asked. “I hope he’s enjoying himself, back in Winter?”

“Indeed he is. Giving our cousins a monstrous headache. They took him fishing, and he stomped about, pretending to be a sea monster, until he cracked the ice cover in three directions,” Kallias chortled. “Njord had to haul him up by his trousers, or he would have plunged right through the fishing hole.”

Lucien smirked, recalling his own ignominious plunge into Winter’s frigid lake, during one of his visits. “Well, you weren’t there to toss him in, so that was a blessing.”

Kallias’s smile grew sharp. “Taught you not to flirt with my girl, didn’t I?”

Lucien roared with laughter. “She wasn’t your girl back then, you ass.” He hadn’t meant anything by his flirtatious banter with Viviane anyway - he’d known better than to entice a princess of her rank, destined for a courtly heir and not a mere seventh son.

Except I wasn’t just a mere seventh son, after all, was I. How different would his life had been, had he known it?

Viviane came up beside her mate, pecking Lucien’s cheek and then twining her arms around Kallias, who gave a soft growl of satisfaction. “She was always my girl. She just didn’t know it.”

“Possessive beast,“ Viviane giggled, not sounding the least bit put out by it. “Poor Lucien. You were soaked through, weren’t you?”

“And very cold,” he agreed amiably, not minding at all that they were poking fun at his more uncoordinated moments. It was far more wholesome, and less damaging to his reputation, than the more sordid events of his life that people had witnessed. “I don’t know how the wild creatures stand it.”

“They’re born to it, of course they don’t mind it. It’s in their nature,” Kallias said. “No different from the sea jellies who inhabit Summer’s waters, or the wolves and foxes of Autumn’s forests, living in harmony with their environment. That is the way the Mother willed it.”

And what if they’re born to two courts at once, Lucien almost answered. What if they’re kept from the court they ought to have lived in?

He only nodded at Kallias, not wanting to burden the conversation with his own bitter recollections, for his personal problems had no place at this gathering. He’d have to reckon with Helion sometime, but the male was somewhere far off in the room, only a faint echo of his magic tugging at the edges of Lucien’s awareness. There were far more immediate concerns, dignitaries to greet, and Lucien plunged into doing just that.

Then he happened to glance back towards the Night Court’s table, towards Elain and her conversation partner, and his heart dropped when he realized whom she’d been talking to.

“I think we’re going to have a problem,” he murmured to Tarquin, nodding in Elain’s direction.

Tarquin cursed, quite uncharacteristically. “This is the absolute last thing we need.”

Lucien kept glancing towards the corner, checking that he was actually seeing things accurately. Last night he hadn’t seen Elain talk to anyone, not even Mor, but now here she was, holding forth like she was born to diplomacy, her conversation partner seeming to hang on every word she spoke.

She spent years avoiding me, but she’ll welcome Cato to her table?

A bright, fierce resentment burst into his chest, threatening to claw its way through him. Did she have any idea who Cato was? What he thought of females in positions of power? Or how little he regarded lesser fae or humans, barely recognized them as people?

Lucien suddenly wished Feyre had been present, for she would never have suffered such a fool’s presence, and Nesta even less so. Cato probably would have never dared approach them. But then, what use would a hardliner like Cato have for a High Lady, or a Valkyrie mated to an Illyrian warrior, whose very aura dripped with violence? He would have reviled them as witches, grasping for power above their station, as abominations and affronts to the so-called natural order. Of the three sisters, only Elain carried herself like a well-bred High Fae female, a fine gentle lady with courtly manners.

What the hell could he want with Elain? Was he trying to rally Night’s support for his cause, if he even knew what court she represented? Was he trying to portray a kinder image, appearing in public with Elain to soften his reputation as a misogynist and a bigot? Elain had once been human herself — did he know that? Perhaps Elain was simply too kind, too solicitous, to recognize that he was an enemy, or to be willing to treat him with the disdain he deserved.

“Well, that is a relief to hear,” Cato was saying, affecting a grandfatherly manner. “There’s no reason why they shouldn’t respect a fine lady like yourself. But you can never be too careful, you know. There are unsavory folk around the palace, especially these days.” He glanced behind Elain, to some of the other courtiers milling about them, his fellow traditionalists among them. His son Marcus stood aloof, arms crossed in displeasure, like he disapproved of his father’s actions, while Catalinus leaned forward with interest, monitoring the conversation like it was a sporting event. “The more violent sort, the criminal element and the simple-minded, need a firm hand to govern them, and I’m afraid they’re allowed to run rampant. Our High Lord and his lady would overturn all decorum, hand over the reins to the eminently unworthy.”

Lucien snarled softly, knowing full well who was meant by simple-minded and unworthy, then nearly jumped out of his skin as Vassa popped up beside him, exclaiming, “There you are, Lucien. Gods, what’s happened? You look ready to light something on fire.”

“Maybe I am. If only it were that easy to get rid of my problems,” he said, giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek in greeting. He could not indulge in kissing her properly, not when she was here in her official role as Queen of Scythia, with her consort obligingly standing beside her.

He shook hands with Jurian, whose sharp eyes had turned towards the corner of the meeting hall, registering the scene just as Lucien had. “Well, this looks like all kinds of trouble,” Jurian murmured.

“This palace was once a sanctuary,” Cato was saying to Elain. “Now we are receiving common rabble, dolled up in borrowed magic and finery.”

Lucien’s fists clenched tightly at his sides. Don’t burn him to ashes. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Elain said, but Lucien thought he could detect an edge to her tone, a subtle cue that she’d taken Cato’s meaning all too well.

“Do you not?” Cato asked, his green eyes boldly peering at Vassa, a frown darkening his face. “Some things are against the natural order, and ought not to be trifled with.”

Lucien’s thoughts swirled frantically as he debated his options, wondered if he should intervene. Cato was speaking to the room now, not just to his supposed audience at the table, as though he was trying to provoke a reaction. Perhaps he was even hoping Vassa or one of her supporters would lash out at him, thus proving how unworthy and uncivilized she was. Lucien knew Vassa was more than capable of handling herself, but why should she have to tolerate such blatant disrespect?

I should say something.

But before he could conjure any appropriate words, or take a step towards the table, Elain drew herself up, lifting her chin, and addressed Cato with perfect composure. “Hybern trifled with me, when they put me in the Cauldron, and transformed me into fae. Perhaps you did not know I was Made. That is quite against the natural order, I’d think.”

Tarquin stopped talking abruptly, and Kallias and Viviane both turned towards her table. Tamlin hastily put down his glass of wine, then pulled Briar closer to him, as though he could physically shield both of them from this unpleasantness. Around the meeting space, faeries stopped talking, swiveling their heads to take in the scene, and Elain’s ears grew pink, as though she had realized she had the whole room’s attention.

Lucien had taken only one step towards the table before Jurian’s hand on his shoulder drew him back. “Don’t,” he murmured.

“If it’s humans you object to, then I’m afraid you must find another table,” Elain declared. Though her back was to Lucien, he imagined that there was a gleam in her gentle brown eyes, a steadfastness that belied her gentle, calm demeanor. “For I am human, if not in body, then in all other ways that matter.”

Lucien’s heart stuttered at the mix of boldness and sweetness, the utter perfection of the retort. It was masterful, how she’d managed to confront Cato’s bigotry without becoming shrill or threatening.

Cato seemed to know it too, for he swallowed hard, stammering out, “I had indeed heard those reports, of the Cursebreaker’s sisters, Made by the Cauldron. But surely not you — you’re so demure and elegant, a well bred High Fae lady if I ever saw one.”

“He’s obviously never met her sisters, or he wouldn’t dare get within ten feet of her,” Jurian quipped, and Lucien elbowed him. “What? It’s true, isn’t it?”

It was indeed, for multiple reasons. Elain looked enough like Feyre and Nesta that there was no mistaking their kinship, and Cato would have fled from the hall in fright had he seen either Archeron in person, recognizing the grave danger he was in. But Elain, Lucien reflected, might be the most dangerous. Her gentle rebuke had done more to discredit Cato, lose him supporters, than any threat of violence could have done.

Cato was still making the effort, appealing to Elain’s vanity. “Perhaps the Mother blessed you, singled you out for Her special favor. Perhaps it was your destiny from the start, to be raised up from your former condition.”

Lucien almost pitied him then, for Elain replied, “And my human father, who died at the King of Hybern’s hands? Did he not meet the exact same fate as your loved ones? Did he not also bleed, and suffer? Why is one different from another?”

How had she known how expertly to strike? The wickedness of Hybern, and the necessity of razing that cursed island to its roots, was Cato’s very favorite subject, a rallying point for his faction. He was constantly criticizing the High Lords for letting Hybern off so easily after the first war, for not prosecuting their war criminals, for having been lulled by Amarantha’s promises. He’d been braying for Hybern’s blood for all of his centuries, fulminating against them in every speech, no matter what the topic, to the point where Tarquin and Cress were tempted to pass a rule banning mention of Hybern during council deliberations.

But mentioning Hybern now, and their crimes against humans, spoke directly to the concerns of Cato’s faction. Lucien watched them squirm in place, wondered if any of them were wavering, second guessing their positions. Were they actually doing Hybern’s work by opposing human equality? He made a mental note to harp on that point, should the issue rise again during negotiations.

Cato said, “I am just a simple politician. Such questions are for priestesses and scholars.” He stood, apparently intending to make his retreat. “You’ve been most kind, indulging an old male’s ramblings.”

Vassa huffed softly. “She’s been far too kind. Just appearing with him publicly gives him credence.”

“I’m not so certain,” Lucien said.

Elain had stood up as well, and he imagined that she was giving Cato a pretty smile, as though all of this tense conversation had been perfectly delightful party gossip. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, Lord —?”

Cato looked stunned, staring at her as though he suddenly suspected her of witchcraft. Would he actually refuse her, and risk looking frightfully rude and disrespectful?

Then he inclined his head. “I’m just called Cato.”

“Cato,” she repeated. “I’m just called Elain.”

“Good lord, is she fucking serious,” Jurian hissed in Lucien’s ear. “She’s actually going to shake his hand?”

Lucien caught himself grinning, thinking that he couldn’t have choreographed it better. Now that Cato knew she’d been human, he was trying to retreat, put distance between him, and Elain was responding by offering him that most human of goodwill gestures.

Cato stood frozen, unable to figure out how to answer, and Elain trilled sweetly, “No handshake for the Kingslayer, then?”

Jurian let out an amused snort, and Lucien couldn’t fully suppress his laughter, as the murmurs spread out across the room. As the Kingslayer, Elain had struck the critical blow against Hybern, Cato’s most hated enemy. Would he really publicly snub her?

Marcus stepped forward then, muttering, “Father, surely —“ Was he telling his father to just get it over with?

Cato reached out his hand, as though the act physically pained him, and gave Elain the briefest, most reluctant handshake, before turning tail and fleeing from her table, his faction morosely following behind him.

Lucien whooshed out a relieved breath, gratitude and admiration welling up inside him. He’d been worried about Cato’s influence, that the hardliners would succeed in freezing lesser fae and human delegates from the conference, one way or the other. But if Elain was positioning herself as human, explicitly linking herself to their cause, and throwing her status as the Kingslayer behind it, that would significantly weaken Cato’s position.

Then he realized he was staring, and quickly turned himself away, determined not to be caught out gazing longingly at the female who’d once been his mate. She would never welcome such attention, not even meant in a friendly manner. They might be allies politically, but there could never be anything personal between them. Elain had made it very clear she didn’t want that, the moment she’d broken their bond without warning. There’d been no abusive bastard forcing her hand, either, not like Beron had done to his mother. She’d chosen to do it, to pursue her own happiness.

Why does it matter anymore? He’d spent the last decade trying to forget Elain or the bond had ever existed. Why was it so easy to get sucked back in?

“Well?” Vassa asked, and he realized with a jolt that his mind had drifted. “You didn’t hear any of that, did you?”

Didn’t hear what? “Sorry. I was just thinking,” he said apologetically.

“Well, don’t,” she said tartly, then saw his scowl and kissed him teasingly. “The meeting’s about to be called to order. We’re seated up front, so let’s get going.”

Lucien nodded, taking her hand, and let himself be led through the crowd, to the inner ring of tables. It was a place of honor, a recognition of Vassa’s royal status, and he felt a glimmer of optimism at the way the other faeries reacted to her, none of them questioning her right to be there. From the next table over, Briar smiled and waved at them — another human, front and center.

Yet Lucien’s mind kept drifting to the back of the room, where Elain was all but hidden away. Ought she not to be up front, as well? Would she want to be?

She won’t be ignored, wherever she is. She’d proven that very clearly.

He slid into his seat, striving to wrench his focus back, to stay present and alert as Cresseida strode up to the speaker’s podium, calling the conference officially to order.

Chapter Text

“Stop jiggling your leg, you’re rattling the table,” Vassa whispered, nudging him with the edge of her wing.

Lucien stilled, forcing his body into calmness, but he couldn’t quite settle his pounding heart, or soothe his cramping stomach. In front of them, at the podium, Summer’s High Priestess was chanting, blessing the gathering and its participants, invoking the Mother’s eternal love for Her children and the Cauldron’s gifts of life and magic, and many other such platitudes that he barely had ears for. He was too busy trying to sit still and not vomit, for every time the invoking stone shone in his vision, he wanted to shudder anew with revulsion.

It’s not her, he told himself firmly. She is gone, and you survived it.

Vassa’s hand gave his knee a comforting squeeze, while Jurian slid a glass of water towards him. Lucien gratefully gulped it down, the condensation slick against his fingers, making the vessel so slippery that he almost dropped it. But he breathed in deeply, clawing back control, managing to look at the priestess’s features. When he saw that she was deeply dark-skinned, with silvery hair, and soft pink eyes the color of sunsets, his stomach unclenched, the revulsion receding. She didn’t look like that other priestess at all.

Lucien dared to sneak a look around, subtly turning his head one way and then the other, surveying the faces of the delegates scattered throughout the hall. Helion Spell-Cleaver sat with a large delegation, the rays of his spiked golden crown gleaming sharply in the room’s light, his expression somber and jaw tightly clenched. Eris sat on the opposite side of the room, their brothers arrayed around him, but the seat next to him empty - for their mother, Lucien supposed. He hoped she would come down later, that she wouldn’t miss out on all the proceedings just out of a desire to avoid Helion, but he knew that was asking an awful lot of her. Had Eris set up the empty chair for Helion’s benefit, to emphasize her absence?

“Thank you, Pythia. May the Mother bless us all through your song,” Cresseida intoned, stepping back up to the podium again, accepting the ceremonial parchment from the priestess’s hands, and carefully setting it down beside her. Any agreements ratified at the conference would be inscribed on that parchment, blessed with the Mother’s own magic. It was an ingenious way of ensuring that all the parties to any agreement would keep it, and not just feign agreement for the sake of perpetuating some scheme or other.

We should have known Amarantha was up to something when she offered drinks instead. It still boggled his mind, sometimes, that they’d fallen for it.

Then Lucien looked down at his own piece of parchment, far less ornate and messy with scribblings, and frowned to see that there were already several messages that he’d utterly failed to register, so lost had he been in his own recollections. One message in particular was etched in orange glowing letters, and it was an effort not to roll his eyes at it.

The little Archeron is going to be trouble.

Lucien was tempted to just ignore it, but he knew Eris would only keep prodding, so he sighed and scooped up his own pen between sweaty fingers. That confrontation with Cato could have gone worse. She at least held her own.

She doesn’t know what she doesn’t know, and that makes her dangerous.

Lucien sighed, conceding the point. Plunging headlong into danger was an Archeron trait, one he’d thought Elain didn’t share. I really didn’t know her at all, did I, he thought ruefully.

Tarquin was talking, laying out the schedule for the conference, the issues to be debated, but Lucien had heard all the details already, so he subtly bent his head, pressing pen back to paper. What’s your point, Eris? I’m not her keeper.

A line of bright blue script appeared under Eris’s last message. If Rhysand indeed sent her to distract us, it is already working. We ought to be cautious.

Lucien glanced up from the table, towards the Winter Court delegation, where Kallias was tapping his own pen on the desk, his face set tightly with displeasure. Next to him, Viviane was perched regally in a lovely dark blue gown, the tapered half-sleeves her only concession to the summer heat. Her hand rested on his arm, her fingertips making soothing circles, while her sister sat on her other side, fanning herself with a pale hand. When Cyane caught Lucien’s eye, she smiled brightly, and he tried gamely to smile back, resisting the urge to turn his head further, towards the back of the hall where another female was sitting.

Who’s distracted, he responded, as though it weren’t blatantly obvious. He’d been nothing but distracted, since the first moment he’d heard she was present in Summer, and it was only a matter of time before he made a grave error, if he wasn’t more careful.

“Of course a proper debate will be held on each motion, with all delegates giving their views of the matter. Only then will a vote be taken,” Cresseida was saying, in response to Marcus’s objection. “Now, if the matter is settled —“

“It isn’t,” Helion boomed, rising from his seat. “We have not considered the matter of proper representation.” His dark eyes scanned the hall, taking in the delegations from each court staring blankly at him, and then rested for an uncomfortable moment on Lucien. The High Lord’s gaze was strong, piercing, as though he were shining a harsh light into Lucien’s eyes, interrogating him without asking a question. “The Consortium has colluded in all matters of trade and politics. What is to prevent that from continuing here?”

Lucien sucked in a sharp breath, bristling at the implied accusation. Colluded made it sound like they were sneaky, underhanded. And Eris apparently thought the same, for he leaned back in his chair, drawling, “Your friends might act that way, Helion, but some of us conduct business out in the open.”

Helion scoffed. “You are the last one who can claim such a virtue, when you dissemble and conceal as easy as breathing.”

“Only when dealing with fools and liars,” Eris said, smirking back, but there was a tightness to his shoulders, a sparking of heat in the air, that told Lucien that the barb had hit its target.

Helion jabbed a finger into the air between them. “The only fool here is you, if you think I will allow such blatant disrespect.”

Eris’s smirk opened up into a full leering smile, and he extended his own finger, letting a hint of flame blaze at the tip, the gesture almost obscene. “It’s cute that you think you’re allowing anything.”

“Does he want to be strangled at every conference?” Vassa hissed.

Jurian snorted. “Wouldn’t that be a fun new tradition.”

Lucien muttered a prayer to the Cauldron. then pressed pen to paper. Can we not? he begged Eris. We actually do want Day to ratify the agreement, and that can’t happen if he storms out in a huff.

Cresseida spoke up, addressing Helion. “You are addressing my court as well, with your comments. If you have a point or a proposal, make it.”

The High Lord of Day turned towards her, flashing her a smile. “Forgive me, High Lady. I would be thrilled to do so. I propose that each court provide an accounting of its population, so that its proportion of the vote can be weighted accordingly.”

Absolutely not, Kallias’s words flashed across the parchment. He was bent over the table, furiously scribbling, and then a second sentence appeared. Helion has some nerve suggesting it.

No court is more worthy or important than any other, came Tarquin’s elegant handwriting, shimmering silver. We will not agree to any such motion.

A number of courtiers from different delegations were out of their seats, fulminating on the fairness or unfairness of such a proposal. Helion’s people were vociferously supporting him, praising him as fair-minded and democratic, and bristling at Eris calling their High Lord a liar, while the Summer faction was aghast at such a perversion of the way things were always done. But Lucien stayed silent, his mind spinning as he considered the implications. Helion must have crunched the numbers, if he was willing to suggest it, and had concluded it would work to Day’s advantage. Did he really think the other courts would agree to it? Or was he after some other concession?

There was a bark of laughter towards the back of the room, and a daintier giggle, but Lucien didn’t dare turn around. He guessed where the sounds had come from, who might have made them, and indignation burned low in his gut.

Vassa’s wing curled around him, its delicious heat radiating through the air, and it snapped Lucien out of his spiral of thinking. It didn’t matter what Elain thought, or what the Night Court chose to do. Why was he even paying attention to them?

Eris was out of his seat, apparently having tired of the debate, and also apparently ignoring Lucien’s pleas for moderation. His fiery gaze was firmly on Helion, issuing a clear challenge, though his comments addressed the room at large. “The Day Court’s proposal is frankly insulting. Are not all our courts equal in stature? Why should some courts be assigned more votes than others?” Their brothers stirred behind him, agreeing wholeheartedly with him — even Killian, who liked to oppose Eris just for the sake of it.

“As I explained, it is perfectly obvious. Some courts are simply more populous,” Helion said irritably, a pulse of his magic reverberating through the air. Lucien’s own magic stirred inside of him, and he clamped down on it. “You ought to have a word with your tutors, if such elementary mathematics as counting eludes you.”

There were a few snickers from his courtiers, and even a few chuckles from the Vanserra brothers. But Lucien’s pen plunged into the parchment, tearing a hole in it. Helion’s grandstanding was a little too close to the way that Beron enjoyed humiliating his sons in public, and he hoped that his real father wasn’t actually like this, that it was only because Eris was goading him to anger. Surely a male that his mother would love couldn’t be truly vicious.

“My capital city alone exceeds your court’s numbers, for Autumn folk are spread thinly across the land in villages and small settlements,” Helion was saying, his tone becoming matter-of-fact, less condescending. “It’s the same in all the seasonal courts, except Summer, and their little coastal cities can hardly compare to Rhodes, or the Hewn City, or Velaris. Indeed, the Night Court is the most populous of all our courts by far, if you count their winged warriors who reside in the mountains. It’s only fair that courts with more at stake get more representation.”

Lucien happened to think that the Illyrians and the Hewn City barely counted in the Night Court’s calculations - that Rhys saw them as resources to be wielded, or problems to be managed, rather than as citizens who deserved his protection equal to the people of Velaris. Especially now, if rumors of the uprising in Illyria were to be believed.

But he didn’t have time to think much on the matter, or wonder how much Helion truly knew of Night’s inner workings, for Kallias was rising to his feet, his power rushing out of him in an icy whirlwind, making the room’s temperature plummet. “And why is it, pray tell, that our courts are depopulated? Whose fault is that?” he challenged, facing Helion with a furious expression.

Lucien’s gaze shot to the front of the room, and he exchanged a worried look with Tarquin, before turning back towards the Winter Court’s table. They had both tried to counsel Kallias to put his grievances aside for the conference, but the provocation had apparently been too much. Viviane was tugging on her husband’s arm, trying to silently reel him back in, but Kallias was not to be deterred, not now. He spat, “Rhysand spent five decades slaughtering our people. He deserves no representation whatsoever.”

Lucien swallowed hard, his mind scrambling for how he might calm Kallias down, salvage the situation, when in the back of the room Mor rose, a scornful anger twisting her features. “We object to these vile accusations.”

He tried to ignore Elain’s frozen expression, the fear and horror on her pretty face. It bothered him, more than he wanted to admit, but as inconvenient as it was that they were quarreling about the occupation, it was a reckoning that had been long delayed. It was vile, what Rhys had done at Amarantha’s command, and it made Lucien feel a little ashamed that he’d so easily overlooked it. That was what the bond had done to him, made him desperate enough to serve an enemy.

“You did not object while you were kept safe, Morrigan, coddled in your secret city while the rest of us suffered,” Kallias was raging, ignoring all of Viviane’s attempts to interrupt him. “You did not object while your High Lord murdered, and invaded minds, and lorded his position as her whore over the rest of us.”

Several tables broke out into frantic murmuring, others gasping in shock that Kal would dare utter the word whore in a priestess’s presence, as though they hadn’t all called Rhys by that epithet. Perhaps that had been unfair, for warming Amarantha’s bed at night was the least objectionable part of Rhys’s conduct — it was the rest of his behavior that was truly evil and shocking.

Gods, Lucien, do something, bright green letters blared across his parchment.

He looked up, grimacing apologetically at Tamlin, but before he could answer, Tarquin spoke up from the podium. “Kallias, old friend, please —“

But Kal would not be deterred. “What did I say that was inaccurate? The damage done is incalculable.” His usually stoic face was twisted in anguish, the guilt that he could not save his court’s precious younglings weighing heavily upon him. “Each life lost is a boundless tragedy, and by my elementary mathematics, Rhysand Mind-Killer had thousands of victims, if not tens of thousands.”

Tens of thousands sounded more likely to Lucien. Even if Rhys had killed only one person a day, even if he’d taken days off on occasion, the tally would still add up rapidly, surpassing a thousand within just three years, and ten thousand before the third decade. And Amarantha’s appetite for cruelty and vengeance was utterly insatiable, given how easily she got bored, and there’d been days where she ordered death upon death, punctuated by slower, more torturous brutality, which Rhys had also had a heavy hand in.

As if Kallias could hear those thoughts, he added, “And how many more were terrorized? Tortured? Scarred for eternity?”

Lucien looked past Vassa to Jurian on her other side, saw the faraway look in his friend’s eyes, and reached across her to squeeze Jurian’s shoulder.

Jurian jolted, as though he’d forgotten he had a body and was startled that someone had touched him, but then he swallowed hard and nodded. Vassa leaned over, whispering low words in his ear, and he nodded again, more convincingly this time. Amarantha had broken him, forced him to witness centuries of horrors, but he was here now, and she wasn’t. Jurian had more right to vengeance and bitterness than almost anyone — Lucien didn’t know how he could sit there so calmly.

“Rhys didn’t want to do it,” Mor insisted. “He was only pretending.”

Kallias’s fury was unabated as he continued to shout at her, to scold her that Rhys’s pretense didn’t matter, not when his victims had grieving parents, mates, and families. Everyone had had to pretend, to keep their defiance and revulsion in check, but none of them had gone over to Amarantha with such eagerness, carried out her orders with such sneering amusement. Eris, perhaps, had come the closest, but he’d managed to stay no more than a spectator.

Lucien shifted uncomfortably, noting with alarm that Helion was continuing to argue, to defend Rhys, and that Kallias was starting to lose it. His hands were raised, as though he might unleash his power, and the last thing they needed was an actual brawl. Lucien got up, edging carefully around Vassa’s wing, and strode towards the Winter Court’s table.

“I can’t, Lucien,” Kal murmured, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. “I’m not going to sit here and let them deny it.”

“They won’t succeed,” Lucien said, keeping his own voice low and steady. “They can’t rewrite history. No one will forget what was done Under the Mountain. We won’t let it happen.”

Kal glanced past him towards Helion, his eyes flashing with icy determination. “They think we’re weak, with our reduced numbers, with our people laid low and grieving. You heard what Helion said about it. They seek to take advantage.”

“No, Kal. They don’t think we’re weak. They know we’re strong,” Lucien assured him, resisting the urge to turn around, to see how Helion was reacting to all this. Dimly, he could hear that his father was talking, that Eris was responding with his usual sarcasm, but he tried desperately to tune it all out, to focus on calming Kallias down. “They know the days of Rhys throwing his power around, and having us all listen, are over. They see our unity as a threat.”

“They should,” Kallias said, but his fists were unclenching, his posture becoming more relaxed. “We’ll get our vengeance, one way or another. Make sure our dead aren’t forgotten.”

“Our living, either,” Lucien said, tilting his head towards Viviane.

Kal turned towards his mate, and she gave Lucien a grateful nod before reaching out for her husband, and Lucien felt confident enough that things were under control to step away from the table.

“Rhysand fought for Prythian,” Helion was insisting, still arguing with Eris. “He sacrificed his life to repair the Cauldron.”

We’re still on this bullshit? Lucien would have loved to go for the rest of the conference without hearing Rhys’s name again. Rhys wasn’t even there, Cauldron damn it. When would Prythian free itself from his shadow?

“He sacrificed many people’s lives, all of them unwilling,” Eris retorted. “And he would have sacrificed many more, had Tamlin not earned a curse that could be broken.”

Lucien resisted the urge to look at Elain, whose sister was the Cursebreaker, after all. He had no idea how she really felt about it. Did she wish Feyre hadn’t gotten involved, or hadn’t gone back over the Wall when she could have stayed safe on the human side of it? Did she resent Tamlin, blame him for what had happened to her, as her sisters did? She’d once told Lucien he betrayed her, so that was likely. He grimaced as he recalled that ill-fated conversation, how it might have hurt less if she’d just stabbed him.

“Tamlin also invited Hybern into Prythian, giving them access to the Wall, and a path to invasion,” Helion said accusingly.

Cato stood up, giving his usual speech about how Hybern was to blame for all their troubles, but Lucien’s eyes were on his old friend, carefully monitoring how he’d taken the criticism. Tamlin had long since made amends with the other Consortium leaders, had put plentiful funds and effort into rebuilding his court, but a solar court leader wouldn’t necessarily know that. Tamlin had colluded with Hybern for a few months, at most, while Rhys had done it for decades on end — didn’t Helion see the hypocrisy in his criticism?

Tamlin was staring down at the table, his fingers lengthening into talons, but when he did speak, he sounded sorrowful, not angry. “I will blame Hybern for many things, but not my own actions. I was not under a daemati’s influence. Just misguided and stubborn, refusing to listen. I have tried to make amends, among my own people.” He looked at Briar, who nodded at him, and that gave him the courage to continue. “But if any beyond my own court have suffered, they can seek me out after this conference.”

Lucien whooshed out a relieved breath, quietly thrilled at this answer. He knew how hard Tamlin had fought to get to a place where he didn’t lash out, where the mere mention of his past mistakes didn’t send him spiraling into despair and humiliation. There had been many a time when Tamlin wouldn’t see anyone, when he spent months at a time prowling his woods as a beast, and many more difficult days when he was morose and short-tempered, provoked to rage at the slightest incidents. That rage had been replaced by a brooding, nervous sorrow, and then the first small signs of hope as the first settlers began to return to Spring, and the first harvests followed.

Lucien caught Tamlin’s eye, and gave him an encouraging nod, a silent show of solidarity. He knew how damn difficult it was, how much strength it took to keep trying, when the whole world was eager to see you fail. And it seemed Tamlin’s people knew it too, because the whole table of delegates was staring angrily at Helion, clearly resentful on their High Lord’s behalf.

Helion, however, wasn’t finished. “I will not cede the moral high ground to the seasonal courts, these pretty words notwithstanding. I know you have been scheming against us for a decade, curtailing diplomatic relations, systematically stifling trade. Your Consortium seeks to dominate Prythian. And I tell you, you will not succeed.”

Lucien slid back into his own seat, practically shaking with fury. How he wanted to scream in Helion’s face, to make him understand what domination actually felt like, to ask him whether Rhys would have lifted one finger to defend him, if their positions had been opposite. The argument became a buzzing whine in his ears as he struggled to rein his own feelings in, shove down his anger and resentment.

He could feel the weight of Helion’s gaze back on him — his father’s gaze, by the Cauldron. Some small, naïve part of him had conjured a foolish hope that Helion could be someone to him, but it seemed they were destined to be adversaries. Lucien’s loyalty was to the Consortium, to his longtime friends and diplomatic partners, and not to the Day Court, which had never been his home, and never would be.

And certainly he owed nothing to the Night Court. Night had never been safe for him, only a source of deep shame and disappointment, for he’d never been truly welcomed, only tolerated, and his position had always been precarious. He’d been valued only for his political connections, then discarded without a second thought, severed from the bond without so much as a warning, left to cobble together the bits of his broken soul, without anyone caring whether he lived or perished. No, Lucien would never again champion the Night Court’s interests, speak their messages, do their bidding.

Helion clearly considered them allies, probably wouldn’t care how they’d treated Lucien, for he had no reason to care for a son he’d never even known about. But did he know how Rhys had threatened his mate? Did he care?

“I really don’t see why this is relevant,” Vassa was complaining, jolting Lucien back to the present, to the argument that was still raging. “This conference is not about prosecuting old grievances.”

Lucien gripped the edge of the table, struggling to master himself. This whole conference was going to fall apart if he couldn’t figure out a way to curtail this bickering. He owed it to Vassa, to Jurian, to Briar, to wrangle the fae into some kind of order, to focus them all back on the issues at hand.

He stood, shoving down his roiling feelings, and faced the room. “The past cannot, will not, be forgotten, and there are things we have not worked out between us.” Understatement of the decade. There were many things that would never be worked out, many injustices that would never be corrected. He swallowed thickly, then continued, “But if we do not act, come to some agreement, we are only perpetuating injustice, harming others.”

He turned in a slow circle to make eye contact with Eris, who met his gaze with stubborn smugness. Then he forced himself to meet Helion’s gaze, steeling himself for whatever disapproval or anger he might find there, but he couldn’t interpret the expression on his father’s face, and didn’t know why he even cared. Then he caught a brief glimpse of Elain, peering at him with those wide doe eyes that had once haunted his dreams and nightmares, but he quickly wrenched his gaze away. Looking too long at her would undo all his composure, and he couldn’t afford that.

“The humans cannot wait for us to come to terms with our history,” he concluded, catching a nod of encouragement from Briar, and a soft hum of approval from Jurian. “I cannot speak for all of us, but I am willing to move forward.”

The room plunged into an unsettled silence, and Lucien fought back the urge to keep talking, to press the point any further. He’d extended the peace offering, and needed to see who was willing to accept it.

To his relief, Helion responded, “All that is true, and then point is taken.” Their eyes met from across the room, and it forcefully struck Lucien how alike they looked, how much of his own likeness he could pick out in Helion’s features. Perhaps Helion was thinking the same, for his own words faltered for a moment, and several seconds ticked by before he swallowed and went on, “Yet the issue still remains, that the Consortium seeks to put itself in a position to dictate the outcome of these proceedings.”

Like the solar courts don’t want to do the same? Lucien wanted to retort, but refrained.

Helion seemed to see the objection in his eyes, and gestured towards the Dawn delegation, seeking to answer it. “Even if Dawn were not always neutral, you still outnumber us. Simple majority voting will never be fair, under such circumstances. Given the animosity between — certain courts, there ought to be some assurances that the accords will be fair to all, that this summit won’t be used to pursue our own grievances.”

It was as close to a peace offering as he was likely to get, and Lucien took it. “We can designate some topics as off limits.” He looked towards Kallias, hoping his old friend would understand. They had agreed, when planning the conference, not to make it a war crimes tribunal. Now that Kal had said his piece, hopefully he’d be satisfied for the present. The High Lord of Winter’s expression was bleak, but he gave Lucien a slight nod, indicating he wouldn’t argue further.

“But,” Lucien went on, not wanting to give away all his ground, “trade policy, finances, will be involved in any settlement, any aid we can offer. We can’t avoid talking about the past completely. And I see no way to avoid the numerical imbalance in the delegations, not unless I’m overlooking something. We can’t change how many courts there are, or their populations.”

Helion looked like he might answer, but Elain spoke up then, her sweet lilting voice filling the hall. “Why do only faeries have delegations? Shouldn’t humans have their own vote?”

Lucien turned to stare at her, startled by the suggestion, and chagrined that he hadn’t thought of it. There were already humans at the conference, but none who actually lived in Summer. His mind began to fill with questions. How organized were the human villages — had they elected actual leaders? Would they even be willing to step foot into a room full of faeries, where they would be completely outnumbered?

He glanced down at the table, where his parchment was rapidly filling up with writing, the messages scrawled out so furiously that they were overlapping each other, but he resolutely turned away, looking up at the podium instead. Tarquin and Cresseida’s court hosted the bulk of the humans, and they would be the ones most affected. Cresseida’s mouth was set tightly, her displeasure at the suggestion evident, but Tarquin was leaning forward, a gleam in his turquoise eyes that Lucien knew well. This was exactly the sort of idealistic suggestion that would speak to Tarquin’s sense of justice, and it would piss off most of his courtiers, which was an added bonus.

Tarquin suddenly seemed to register that Lucien was deferring to him, and hastily cleared his throat. “Is that an official proposal?”

Elain rose, her lovely face flushed, as though all the sudden attention to her was overwhelming. Lucien wondered if she’d ever had her ideas taken seriously before, if people actually stopped and listened. With two strident, assertive sisters, and a whole inner circle of brash loudmouthed folk, he tended to doubt it. Perhaps that was what she’d seen in Azriel, all along — he was the only one of them who was quiet, who actually paid attention, looked beyond the bluster and aggressive manners, noticed things others didn’t.

But when she spoke, she sounded confident, her commitment to the idea evident. “It is.”

Told you she was dangerous, Eris’s message blazed across the parchment.

Tamlin’s lettering appeared just underneath it. We should at least consider it.

Of course you think so, Eris retorted, your sweetheart is human. But consider what chaos this will cause, if the human delegation sides with the solar courts.

Lucien could see that argument, though he disagreed with it. The humans would be a wild card, especially if they were disorganized or squabbling amongst themselves, or just inexperienced in faerie diplomacy. Would they accept help, if freely offered, or distrust it? Would they even want Vassa and Jurian’s leadership?

Briar rose to her feet, apparently confident that Tamlin would approve, or exhibiting a show of independence that Lucien could only marvel at. “I second the motion.”

Humans are inherently unpredictable, Eris was arguing. Can we really risk it?

Lucien shook his head at that, scrawling out a message of his own as one of Summer’s courtiers rose to object. It’s a conference about human rights, he pointed out. Of course the humans need to be here.

Jurian and the Summer courtier were exchanging taunts, and Vassa was weighing in on her consort’s behalf, insisting that he be treated with respect. The distraction gave Lucien a chance to bend his head to paper again, adding, There’s no version of this where we can deny them in good conscience. Then we really would be trying to dominate, like Helion said.

Don’t let that bastard get to you, Kallias answered.

I’m not. I promise. I just think this is right, Lucien wrote back.

Tarquin rose, addressing the whole gathering. “The status of humans and their governance has not yet been determined. Whether they will be ruled by High Lords and Ladies, or answer to a mortal queen, or govern their own affairs with some other arrangement.”

“Shouldn’t they have a say in that?” Elain replied. “Shouldn’t they get to vote on the matter? Their fate ought not to be dictated to them, just because they happen to live here.” 

Lucien agreed, of course he did, but the way she’d said it forcefully struck him, like a physical blow, and it left him reeling. Perhaps that had always been her objection, her reason for despising him. She hadn’t wanted anything to do with faeries, had wanted her happy human life, and it had all been ripped away from her. And he’d been her Cauldron-granted mate — that alone was enough to damn him.

It was always doomed, from the very beginning. He wasn’t sure if that comforted him, or pained him further.

Their eyes met from across the hall, and he forced his face to go blank, to give nothing away. He’d never held back out of pride, not with her, but this was beyond that — it was self-preservation. So what if she was looking at him, and not shying away? That didn’t mean he could risk pouring out his emotions.

Jurian leaned over, tugging on his sleeve. “Is this going to be a problem for the Consortium?”

Lucien turned towards him. “We came here to ensure rights for humans. And here we are with a chance to do that.” He managed a shaky smile. “I already said we’d agree to limit the scope of the conference. This is just another reason to do it. Now we’ll just have to stay focused.”

Vassa stood up, addressing the conference, assuring them that they would negotiate in good faith, while Jurian nodded in agreement. Then he leaned towards Lucien again. “I hope the humanfolk of Summer appreciate the gesture.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lucien said honestly. “They don’t owe us anything. They didn’t ask to be here.” And he glanced back towards Elain, a bit startled to see that she was still watching him.

“Let us hear from the Consortium, then,” Cresseida said.

Lucien straightened, feeling all of their eyes on him. He knew Tamlin was firmly with him, that Tarquin was downright enthusiastic about the idea, while Cresseida’s lack of public comment indicated she’d have no objection. Kal and Viviane were less of a worry, for he could always get Briar to talk to them if they needed any reassurance. Eris was the lone objector, on practical grounds, and he would just have to deal with that later. “I can think of no better way to ensure human rights than to welcome a human delegation.”

Cresseida took the sacred parchment, inscribing the act with her magic, and Lucien’s heart swelled with satisfaction. It had been the first official act of the conference, a clear victory for human rights and dignity, and he hoped it was a good omen. “I suggest we adjourn while the schedule is adjusted, so that we postpone discussing human questions until a human delegation can be seated,” Cresseida said, then nodded to Vassa. “I assume you will take the lead role in assembling one?”

Vassa nodded, but Lucien murmured, “I think Briar and Elain ought to join you.”

Vassa’s eyes flashed. “Briar is one thing, but I will not empower that female any further.”

Lucien felt his cheeks heating. He knew Vassa’s fury at Elain was well-founded, but it had been her proposal to seat a human delegation, hadn’t it? “Don’t let my situation stand in the way of progress,” he pleaded, taking Vassa’s hands in his. “I’ve already ruined enough, and we need seasonal and solar courts working together.”

“Stop that. You’ve ruined nothing,” Vassa said irritably, but he could see that she was pondering the possibilities. “Do you truly think Elain’s presence is necessary?”

“It’ll quiet any objections that we’re excluding the solar courts,” he pointed out. “And she seems to be able to think on her feet.” He sighed, squeezing her hands. “I’m not asking you to be her friend. Just — I think it’ll work to your advantage.”

Vassa eyed him critically, as though she knew this wasn’t the entire answer. Here he was, arguing on behalf of the female who’d spurned him, who’d shattered his heart from the inside out. How could he explain it?

She needs this, he didn’t say to Vassa. She was miserable and lost last night. She needs a purpose.

Vassa straightened, huffing out a small sign of displeasure, then addressed the room. “I will consult on the matter with my fellow humans, Jurian and Briar.” She paused, then added, “And since it was Elain Archeron’s proposal, she is welcome to consult with us, too, if she wishes.”

Elain was instantly on her feet. “I would like that.”

Lucien resisted the urge to slump in his chair. He’d either ensured the endeavor’s success, or set them up for a monstrous failure. He was expecting Vassa and Jurian to play nice with Elain, when he knew full well how they felt about her. He had to remove himself as an obstacle, make it clear that he’d fully moved on and that he had no more reason to care.

Like I could fool them. He had to laugh at his own silly notions. There was no way to pretend the bond, or its absence, didn’t effect him. His friends knew him far too well for that.

I hope you know what you’re doing, Eris’s words blazed across the page in fiery warning.

Lucien sighed, and wrote back, Me too.

Chapter Text

Delegates filled the hall with excited talking, a buzzing whine in Lucien’s ears. The opening session had ended far better than it had begun, but there were so many unanswered questions, so many tangled threads to unravel, that it threatened to give him a pounding headache. His father’s ardent defense of the Night Court had left him feeling sour, compounded by the realization that Elain had accomplished in a few minutes what others had struggled to do for a decade - get the fae to accept humans at the negotiating table. The victory had been too easy, which made him think that Elain was either exceptionally favored by the Mother, or it was all about to go spectacularly wrong. Or both, probably.

Vassa practically leaped up from the table, her eyes blazing with heat, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “This is not what we discussed. Human delegates are one thing, but working closely with Elain Archeron? I can’t believe I just agreed to it.”

“We didn’t know this was going to happen,” Lucien said, his mind racing for the right thing to say to placate her. The idea did sound crazy, when she put it like that, even though his gut told him it was important, that Elain had some further role to play in all this. That didn’t mean they had to like it.

“That’s the problem. Too many unknowns,” she seethed. “Too many wild cards. That girl, especially. She can’t go five minutes without doing something impulsive, drawing all the attention to herself. So far she’s been gods-damned lucky, but where does it end? Who knows what crazy idea she’ll think of next?” She whirled on Jurian, who was busy refilling his drink, and he was so startled that he fumbled with the decanter. Lucien’s hand whipped out and caught it, before it could shatter, and he thanked the stars for his fae reflexes. “You see the issue, Jurian, don’t you? Please tell me you haven’t lost your senses.”

Jurian knocked back his entire glass of amber liquid, then swiped his mouth carelessly with his hand. “We’ll get her to say all the crazy ideas in private, talk her down from the most impractical, then make a better plan,” he shrugged. “What’s the other option?”

“There isn’t one,” Vassa admitted, huffing in exasperation. She smacked Jurian’s hand away when he reached for the bottle again. “Stop that, or you’ll start saying crazy things next.”

Jurian gave her one of his infuriating smiles, then winked at Lucien. “Tell Her Royal Pain-in-the-Ass Majesty I’d never do such a thing.”

Lucien’s lips twitched, but he dared not smile, not with Vassa watching. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re a damn fool,” Jurian said. “But at least I can get sober. What will it take for you to get wise?”

Lucien’s restraint gave way, and he barked a harsh laugh, in spite of it all. “Nothing. It’s never going to happen.”

His mechanical eye clicked in agreement, silently scolding him. He had always been an idiot, plunging headlong into danger and ruin. Why should today be any different?

Vassa snarled at them both in irritation, then stalked from the table, but she didn’t get far before she was enveloped in a group of admirers, gushing about her firebird wings, her role in the last battle of the war and her defeat of the sorcerer-lord. Vassa took it all in stride, more patient with strangers than she was with her family. Lucien watched her slip smoothly into her role as a queen, feeling both hopeful for her, and sad for himself that he wouldn’t get to see her succeed this way with her own people. He hoped the Scythians would appreciate her just as much as the fae did, if not more.

“Well, that could have gone worse,” Tarquin said hopefully, stepping down from the dais to approach their table.

“Depends on who we’re talking about,” Jurian said, jerking his head towards the Winter Court’s table, where Viviane and Kallias were standing, arguing with each other in increasingly strident voices.

Lucien cringed, both at the very public display, and at the sorrow and fury radiating off both of his Winter friends. Viviane had kept it together during the meeting, but was clearly furious with her husband, and Kallias was pleading with her to understand. “I won’t bring it up again,” he was saying, his hands outstretched towards his wife, who was standing stiffly with her arms crossed. “But I had to say my piece, didn’t I? I had to make them all understand.”

“I understand, Kallias, all too well,” Viviane snapped. “All of the other monsters are dead, and Rhysand is the only one left to blame. And if you can’t get to him, you’ll take it out on his friends. Whether they deserve it or not.” He opened his mouth to object, but she jabbed a finger at his suit coat, frost spreading out from the point of contact. Lucien didn’t doubt that such power, fully unleashed, could freeze a person to ice in seconds. “Mor didn’t ask to be hidden away. And neither did I. If you’re going to fault her for not helping Prythian, what does that say about your opinion of me?”

Kal’s eyes were wide, his already pale face going ghostly as he anxiously tried to explain himself to his mate. “Viv, I swear, I didn’t mean you. You didn’t sit idle during the occupation. You fought. You helped. You protected my people. Our people,” he sputtered, grasping at her shoulders.

Jurian let out a low whistle, evidently sharing Lucien’s assessment of the situation. Then he glanced over at Vassa, as though remembering that he, too, had a partner who was pissed off at the moment, then slipped away from the table without another word, snagging the near-empty glass of alcohol as he did so. Lucien picked up his own drink, more to have something to do with his hands than to actually drink it.

Viviane wrenched herself away from her husband’s touch, and he clasped his hands nervously together, as though praying. “Please, darling, listen —“

“I did listen. All too well. You said what you thought, loud and clear. And if that’s how you feel, then I have nothing more to say to you,” she spat, then spun around and stormed off, leaving icy footprints behind on the carpet, a blustery glittering wind trailing behind her. Lucien winced as she nearly plowed into Elain Archeron, who was making her way up the aisle in the other direction.

Elain gave a dainty startled gasp, quickly moving aside so that the furious female could slip past, but then almost collided with a desperate Kallias, who was stalking after Viviane to try to catch up with her. Lucien’s drink sloshed in his hand as he lurched towards the scene, knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent it.

Tarquin murmured, “Well, this is unfortunate.” 

If Fortune is a goddess, Lucien thought bleakly, then She hates me with a passion.

“Sorry,” Elain blurted.

Lucien couldn’t see the look on Kal’s face, but venom laced the High Lord’s words. ““If you were truly sorry, you wouldn’t be here.” Then he stormed out of the hall, the door slamming emphatically shut behind him, leaving a distressed Elain standing in the aisle. 

Lucien sucked in a sharp breath, torn between wanting to intervene and knowing how little that would be welcomed, but then Eris was at his side, grabbing his elbow, wrenching his focus away. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not,” Lucien protested, but he craned his neck, trying to see how Elain was reacting.

Eris shook his arm. “Do I need to remind you who her sisters are? Who she’s married to, and what court she represents?”

Lucien’s shoulders slumped. He could never forget that, not for a moment. He’d failed to fully appreciate the dangers once, had willingly thrown himself on the Night Court’s mercy, beguiled by the stupid mating bond that hadn’t cared about his safety or sanity. He knew how cruel the Night Court could be, how utterly indifferent to his suffering. And that was when he’d worked for them, when being Elain’s mate had meant something.

“If she was sent to distract and divide us, it’s working,” Eris hissed in his ear. “We need you focused and fully with us. You’ve got to stop letting your impulses rule you.” He started steering Lucien closer to where Cresseida was conferring with her administrators, where the rest of the seasonal court delegations were milling about, discussing next steps in excited voices. “Now come on. The Consortium needs you.”

“You’re not my High Lord,” Lucien said sourly, but he obeyed anyway, letting himself be drawn towards the crowd, Tarquin close behind him, and gamely tried to focus on the flow of the conversation. The mood of the delegates seemed cautiously optimistic, but some doubted that humans would even agree to step foot in the palace, while others thought it was all a lovely token gesture that would ultimately amount to nothing.

“The humans will need appointed guardians. Caretakers of their interests,” Pythia, Summer’s High Priestess, was telling Cresseida, “or some unscrupulous faerie will take advantage of their quick aging, misrepresent their agreements with the ancestors to their descendants.”

“And there will have to be strict rules about using magic in their presence, or the humans could simply be enchanted to do a fae’s bidding,” her Autumn counterpart agreed. Lucien didn’t recognize the new High Priestess, though he was grateful Eris had fired the old witch that Beron had employed, whom had abused her position to lay curses on his enemies and sow discord amongst the folk to distract them from what their wicked High Lord was doing.

“Quite so, Dodona. That is how our ancestors kept them enslaved, docile and not rebelling. If I were them, I would want nothing to do with us at all,” Tarquin agreed.

“Unfortunately, that isn’t an option. They are citizens of Prythian now, whether they want it or not,” Cresseida said. “And they may not want these… protections signed into law. It would make them dependents, treat them like children.”

“They don’t live long enough to become anything else,” snorted Callan Vanserra, elbowing his twin, and they both rolled their eyes at it.

“You’re over four hundred, what’s your excuse,” Lucien said tartly, and the delegates around him tittered at it. He met Callan’s murderous glare with a shit-eating grin. “Don’t worry, brother. A few more centuries, and you’ll probably get there.”

“But you might not, if you don’t keep your mouth shut,” Callan snapped.

Eris said nothing, but gave him a look that could have melted glass. Callan stammered something incoherent, then quickly downed the wine in his glass and announced that he needed another, and ducked out of the gathered group.

“We don’t know how long humans will live, now that they have access to Prythian’s magic,” Dodona pointed out, nodding respectfully to her High Lord. “They will flourish with our more nourishing foods, be tended to by faerie healers. The Mother will bless them and their offspring with slower aging and robust health.”

“That’s not how it was, when they lived here as chattel,” Tarquin frowned. “Their lives were miserable and short. How the Mother allowed that, I can’t understand.”

“The Mother works in mysterious ways,” Pythia intoned primly.

Lucien couldn’t begin to comprehend how the Mother allowed many things, why She would create thinking and feeling beings only to let them suffer so horribly. He could only conclude that She was sadistic, or else terribly negligent.

Don’t tempt fate, you have a deal, he reminded himself. Was the Mother vengeful enough to rescind it, just for his impious thoughts? He’d thought the worst, when Elain had gone missing, almost certain the Mother had revoked their agreement. He wondered what Her priestesses would think of it all, not that he would ever be alone with a priestess long enough to ask such a personal question.

He couldn’t predict where it would all lead, now that the priestesses were taking a more active role in political affairs. Pythia and Dodona were harmless enough, more or less living up to the spirit of the High Priestess position, but it was far too easy for an unscrupulous female to rise in the ranks. That was why Spring had brought no priestess at all, for the temple had remained vacant ever since she had tainted it.

“Isn’t there a secret settlement high in the mountains, where no faerie is allowed to enter?” Catalinus asked, coming up to stand in between the priestesses, who both smoothly stepped away, as though just standing near the brash hardliner was utterly distasteful. “Not even the High Lord himself, it’s said.”

“Those are just rumors,” Cresseida said tartly. “There is no such settlement. All of the humans are accounted for. The census-takers make sure of that.”

“And what of all their many descendants?” Catalinus persisted. He shot a look across the room to old Cato, who was sitting at the hardliners’ table, attended by his son, both males looking utterly deflated. Perhaps that too-public encounter with Elain, and the prospect of having lowly humans sully the sacred ground of the palace, had taken some of the fight out of them? “These mortal folk reproduce like rabbits, more than replacing the ones that age and sicken. We are to be overrun, if we don’t put some limits on them.”

Both High Priestesses were glaring at him now, like they might hex him if he continued talking, and Lucien, who had no stomach to dignify a rogue like Catalinus with an answer, especially when he insisted on comparing humans to animals, turned from the crowd to scan the room. He wasn’t looking for Elain, he told himself firmly. He was just paying attention to the goings-on of the delegates, doing his job as a courtier.

Lucien’s mechanical eye whirred energetically until it located Tamlin, standing in the aisle with his arm draped around Briar. They had retreated from the crowd, which was no great surprise, as Tamlin hated small talk, and found large gatherings full of relative strangers like this one to be overwhelming. A frisson of dread ran down Lucien’s spine when he saw that Briar and Tamlin were not alone, but were talking earnestly with Elain, whose lovely face was open and animated, as though she were thoroughly enjoying the conversation. 

The spectacle of Tamlin chatting casually with one of Feyre’s sisters, with Elain, did weird things to Lucien’s insides, and he clamped down on his jealous reaction. He inched closer, trying to make it look like he was still listening to the buzz of conversation all around him, which had moved on to the logistics of some arcane trade policy, but trained his ears on what was being said down the aisle instead.

“Don’t worry about the schedule. These things never proceed according to plan anyway,” Tamlin was saying. “I only regret I cannot escort you.”

“Of course you have business here,” Briar said. “And the humans might be skittish with your presence, anyway.”

The back of Tamlin’s head bobbed as he shifted positions, which Lucien recognized as his old friend working up the courage to keep talking. “I don’t doubt Vassa and Jurian can ably defend you, but I would prefer to have Bron and Hart accompany you as well. They are my most trusted sentries.”

He can’t be fucking serious. Feyre is going to lose her shit when she hears this, Lucien thought frantically. She’d hated being followed by sentries with an undying passion. It had been one of the main sources of friction between them. Feyre had bristled at the lack of autonomy, the sense that she was always being watched, and Tamlin in turn had been tortured with dread of her being attacked, or whisked off to the Night Court with no warning. The fact that he’d been right to worry hadn’t entered into it. Lucien had pleaded with him to back off, had warned him that Feyre was getting fed up, but Tamlin had insisted.

And now he wanted sentries to tail her sister? Lucien shook his head at the notion. Technically they could just be guarding Briar, but if she was with Elain the whole time, it would amount to the same thing. It was a recipe for fucking disaster.

And Bron and Hart, of all the sentries he could have chosen? Yes, they were loyal and staunchly moral, and yes, they’d once loved and revered Feyre, but they were bitter and resentful over how she’d abandoned them. They would never hurt Elain, nor any female, but they were going to be pissed about it.

“Do you really think there will be trouble?” Elain was asking, scrunching up her nose with concern.

“Do you object to having an escort?” Briar replied, answering one question with another.

Lucien wondered what would happen if Elain said yes, that she minded. Would Tamlin send Briar into Adriata, into the wilder lands beyond it, into possible danger, without protection? What other choice did he have?

I could offer to accompany them instead. 

But Lucien’s heart quailed at the very notion. It was hard enough managing large conference halls and ballrooms, pretending not to notice Elain, keeping himself at a far distance, distracting himself with the crowds and the goings-on of the summit. If he had to follow her around, guard her closely, pay attention to everything she said and did, his sanity would be strained to the point of collapse.

Like she’d want you there, anyway.

“Having sentries with us could be seen as a provocation to the humans. Like we’re saying we don’t trust them. And if they are suspicious, or have had bad experiences, having one faerie in the group might be all they can tolerate,” Elain said nervously, touching one of her ears, as though she was suddenly recalling that she was now faerie.

I am human, if not in body, then in all other ways that matter. That was what she’d told Cato, what she’d announced in front of everyone. Would the other humans believe that? What if they didn’t? His mind began to fill with all the ways that things could go wrong.

Tamlin seemed to be thinking of the same possibility, replying, “Bron and Hart could remain at a distance, just to monitor the situation. Send for help, if you should need it.”

“Having a way to send for help would be a sensible precaution. But the sentries’ presence cannot be intrusive, or it might provoke the very conflict we’re trying to prevent,” Elain pointed out reasonably.

So she didn’t mind being guarded? That was certainly different.

She’s not like Feyre, Lucien reminded himself. She never wanted to fight. She’s not a huntress or warrior.

As far as he knew, the only person Elain had ever fought, much less killed, had been the King of Hybern. He wondered if it rankled those tough warriors she surrounded herself with, that she’d struck that blow instead of them. It certainly had pissed off Jurian, who’d long fantasized about plunging his own dagger into the King of Hybern’s throat.

It made Lucien wonder, not for the first time, what Elain thought of Azriel’s violent nature. The Shadowsinger radiated death, even more than the others of their family. Did it bother her to know that he killed and tortured? Or did it put her at ease, to know that she was well-defended? Perhaps that was how she managed to stay so oblivious, secure in the knowledge that others would take up weapons on her behalf, so that her own hands might stay pristine, her own conscience unsullied.

It was an uncharitable thought, and Lucien grasped at it. He couldn’t afford to let her get to him. She might be an able diplomat, more resourceful and cunning than her sweet manners suggested, and she might have befriended Tarquin’s servants, and humiliated the hardliners, and gotten everyone to agree to host a whole delegation of humans at the summit — but that didn’t mean she was perfect, Cauldron damn it.

Jurian came up beside him then, pouring more whiskey into his glass, murmuring, “You look like you just swallowed a wyrm.”

“Maybe I did,” Lucien quipped, but the thought disturbed him. Maybe there was a beast trapped inside him, trying to claw its way out. If he was truly Helion’s heir, was it possible?

“Vassa wants to eat lunch early. Are you going to stay here and wait for Tamlin, or join us?” Jurian nudged him with an elbow when he didn’t immediately answer. “Eris is worried about you, and I see why.”

Lucien scoffed at that. “Like Eris would ever worry about me.” He’d never been anything but a bother and an inconvenience, a convenient target for Eris’s haughty scorn, and a scapegoat and punching bag for the rest of his brothers.

Jurian nudged him again, more forcefully this time. “You don’t remember him coming to visit, right after she ripped your heart out?”

Lucien gulped, turning from Elain and her conversation, the reminder of how abruptly she’d severed the bond ringing in his ears. “I… don’t remember a lot, not from the early days,” he admitted. “Or maybe I’ve tried to forget it.”

He felt like an idiot, complaining to Jurian, who’d been through far worse and for far longer, but his friend nodded. “You weren’t really fit to be seen, but he insisted. I’ve never seen him at such a loss for words, when he saw how miserable and lost you looked.”

“I’m sure he thought it was very undignified,” Lucien grumbled. “Very unbecoming of a Vanserra.” Of course, Eris had known he was not a Vanserra, but had neglected to share that little detail with him.

“Believe me, or don’t, but he was worried about you. Enough that he talked about smuggling your mother out of Autumn, so that she could tend you,” Jurian said.

“What?” Lucien exclaimed. That would have been far too risky. If Eris had been caught, Beron definitely would have killed him, and would have taken his sweet time doing it. The idea that Eris would even consider risking it was startling as hell.

The area around them suddenly lit up, the golden strands of Tamlin’s magic dancing in Lucien’s vision. “What the hell is he doing?” Jurian wondered.

“Summoning something from a pocket realm,” Lucien said, frowning in confusion.

Jurian snickered. “It better not be Feyre’s lingerie.”

Lucien smacked him on the arm. “Gods, you’re such a creep.”

The general only laughed. “What? He didn’t keep any?”

“So he could present it to her gods-damned sister? In public, at a diplomatic conference? You’re even more drunk than I thought,” Lucien complained.

Jurian was squinting thoughtfully in Tamlin’s direction. “No, no, it’s something wooden. Child’s toys, I think.”

“That better not be for Feyre’s boy, or she’ll shove it down his throat,” Lucien said worriedly. Tamlin wouldn’t be that stupid, would he? He risked looking himself, hoping like hell that Elain didn’t notice.

“I found them when we started to clean up the manor,” Tamlin was telling her. “Perhaps it was silly, but I thought they might want them. It was one little thing I could salvage, for the manor’s only younglings.”

Oh. “It must be for Alis’s boys,” Lucien said, his confusion deepening. Alis had disappeared, along with Alder and Orrick, right before the War kicked off. He’d assumed they’d gone home to Summer, had prayed they hadn’t died in the sack of Adriata or perished while trying to cross the border. He struggled to understand why Elain would be receiving their old belongings.

“Who’s Alis again?” Jurian asked, but Lucien barely heard him, for now he was straining to focus on the conversation.

“No, I can take them,” Elain was saying, accepting the toys from Tamlin and giving him a smile that made something in Lucien seethe with fury. She had never, ever smiled at him, and here she was treating these old wooden toys like a gods-damned Solstice present. “Thank you.”

“Thank her for me, and tell her I’m sorry,” Tamlin said.

“Perhaps you could tell her yourself,” Elain said. “I intend to propose that lesser fae should no longer need glamours at the palace, so that they are free to talk to anyone, and then they can attend the conference as well.”

Lucien’s heart felt like it would burst. He’d been trying to work on Summer for years, needling them whenever he got the chance, discussing all of the implications, strategizing with Tarquin on how they might win over votes on the council, how they might sell the reforms to a suspicious populace. It would be far too late to help Jesminda, but at least others wouldn’t be treated as lesser — at least their voices could be heard. Perhaps they could even win representation on the council, and advocate for themselves? Could Elain do it? He’d be eternally grateful.

He stared at her beautiful face, listening with rapt attention, as she declared, “It’s shocking that they’re treated so poorly. I would have thought the Consortium cared more about them.”

There was a sickening crack, and Lucien reared back as though he’d been struck by lightning. Every thought in his mind, every warm and lovely feeling, was swept away in a flash, replaced by a burning hot anger and shame that surged hot inside him. Was that what she thought, that they didn’t care?

“Shit,” Jurian muttered, lunging for him, and Lucien suddenly realized that his hand was copiously bleeding, the open cuts stinging with spilled alcohol. That crack had been him, shattering the glass he was holding. He’d exploded it.

He swayed, staring down at himself in horror, the meeting room fading out into a blur as Jurian grabbed him, nervously joking, “And you said I was drunk, you clumsy oaf.”

I would have thought the Consortium cared more about them.

Easy for her to fucking say. She had never cared about anyone outside her own little family, had never bothered to check on the humans before, and if she’d spent the last decade campaigning for the rights of lesser fae at the Night Court, he’d certainly not heard one peep about it. No, it was likely she’d only just realized that not everyone lived like her, ensconced in an idyllic, perfect city, shielded from the pain and unpleasantness that life doled out to others.

“What the fuck happened,” Eris hissed, shoving his way towards them.

Jurian was almost frantic. “I don’t know, the air just exploded around him! Is that some kind of Day Court thing?”

Eris’s face swam in his vision.  “Gods damn it, Lucien, you need a healer.”

“Eris,” he gasped, grabbing his brother’s immaculate suit, trailing blood down the left side from his shattered hand that throbbed in agony, “Eris, please, get me out of here.”

“Can you handle things here?” Eris said to Jurian, who nodded breathlessly, then patted Lucien’s shoulder and retreated, probably to tell Vassa what had happened.

Eris gripped Lucien’s shoulders. “Come on, little brother,” he said, in a voice that was almost gentle. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Lucien’s good eye blurred with tears as Eris’s magic surrounded them, winnowing them away.

Chapter Text

“Hold still, I’m almost finished.” Eos was hovering over Lucien, carefully balancing a bowl of water, her hands still softly glowing with healing magic, while Eris stood behind him, hands braced on his shoulders. “I am going to do a final cleaning, and then apply the bandages.”

Eris leaned down to chastise him. “Stop fidgeting, little brother. You’re the worst patient I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m not patient at all, that’s the trouble,” Lucien agreed, though he was so woozy from blood loss and the lulling effects of Eos’s magic, he would probably have agreed to anything. He tried to stop moving, to sink down into the couch in the Day Court’s suite, which was now doubling as an infirmary. Eris had been right to drag him here, instead of to the actual infirmary in the palace, for other than Thesan himself, there was no better healer than Eos.

He looked up gratefully at the serene, lovely female, who’d hastily thrown on her healer’s robe and scrubbed her hands clean before guiding him into the suite, rapidly talking to Eris to find out what had happened, smoothly ignoring the blood Lucien had trailed in. He’d tuned out the rest of it, his despairing mind drifting off into a strange oblivion, barely registering what was happening as they’d maneuvered him onto the couch so that Eos could work on him. She’d poured her healing magic into his hand, knitting flesh and muscle back together, and he’d mercifully passed out, waking up minutes or hours later to glimmers dancing in the corners of his vision, probably glamoured servants cleaning the mess he’d created.

“I really am feeling much better,” he assured them, and actually meant it. But then he made the mistake of looking down at his newly healed hand, slick and raw and angry-looking, much like his face had been after she’d gotten through with it, and he quickly averted his gaze before the sight roiled his stomach.

Eos chuckled, settling back down on the chair beside him, and sliding the bowl onto a low table for easy access. She dipped a finger into it, infusing the water with shimmering soft light, then gently grasped Lucien’s hand at the wrist and eased the tips of his fingers in. They tingled pleasantly, warmth suffusing through them, and he softly sighed in relief as she helped him slowly lower his hand fully into the water, guiding his fingers to curl so that he didn’t stretch his hand out too much. “Don’t worry, High Lord. I’m used to it.”

“That’s what worries me,” Eris said, looking sternly down at Lucien. “He needs patching up far too often.”

“Says the male who got himself purposefully stabbed by an Illyrian blade,” Lucien said, wincing when he moved his fingers a little too quickly, sending a wave of sharp pain through them. Eos noticed, and pressed her hand more firmly against his wrist, sending a pulse of her magic into it. He took a jagged breath, then relaxed as the screaming pain settled back down into a dull throbbing ache. “Cauldron, Eos, that’s so much better.”

“I can take the pain away entirely, but then you might re-injure yourself, if you do too much before you’re fully ready,” she said. “Or can I trust you to be careful?”

“No,” Lucien admitted, trying to muster the roguish grin that he used to put people at ease. 

Eos returned his smile, her olive skin flushing a bit pink under the hood of her healer’s robe, but Eris fumed, “Of course not. You’re foolish and reckless.”

“Guilty as charged,” he agreed, angling his head to look up at his brother. Eris’s pale face loomed over him, coppery eyebrows furrowed, his amber eyes filled with a simmering anger, and beneath that something else — worry, perhaps. Lucien never would have believed that, had always taken Eris as so cold and callous, but then he remembered what Jurian had told him.

“I’m sorry,” he said more softly to Eris. “I don’t know what made me lose control like that.”

“Don’t you?” Eris scoffed. “Because I think it’s obvious. She’s getting to you, that’s what this is.”

Lucien’s gaze shot back towards the healer, who was humming pleasantly to herself, carefully looking at what she was doing to give them some semblance of privacy. He wondered what she must have seen and heard, during all her centuries as a healer, when patients’ visitors forgot that she was lingering in the background. Thesan’s people adhered to a strict code of conduct, but not all healers had the same scruples. Lucien didn’t doubt that many were spies, using their positions to trade in secrets, and that some were even assassins, using the healer’s robes as cover to infiltrate and then poison their targets. Eris must have really trusted Eos, to speak so openly in front of her.

“I don’t feel the bond anymore,” Lucien insisted, his non-injured hand pressing to the empty hollow in his ribcage where Elain had once been.

“I didn’t say the bond. I said her,” Eris said irritably, his disgust for Elain obvious. His fingers tightened on Lucien’s shoulder. “She’s going to be the death of you, brother.”

She already has been, Lucien almost answered.

He sighed heavily, tipping his head back in exhaustion. The ornate wooden rim of the couch dug into the back of his head, but he welcomed the discomfort, for it took the focus off of his still-smarting hand. Why had he reacted so strongly to a simple ignorant comment? He knew full well what work he’d done, what work the Consortium had left to accomplish. How much they did care about lesser faeries, Lucien most especially. Why did he care what Elain thought of him?

“Being in such close proximity to your father probably didn’t help either,” Eos said mildly, still looking down at the bandages she was arranging on the table in front of her. “Your Day Court magic is strong, yet unsettled.”

“Did word spread that fast?” Lucien asked, wondering just how many people had seen his mother with Helion on the dance floor last night, who’d finally put the pieces together. But when she didn’t answer, another thought occurred to him. “You already knew, didn’t you.”

Eos put the bandages down and faced him forthrightly. “I had suspicions. When you were brought to us, to heal from your wounds and get your prosthetic, Nuan and I discussed the possibility that you might have some Day Court heritage. We both felt it, despite Amarantha’s stranglehold on all magic. So it had to be from someone powerful, and it had to be of recent ancestry. A grandparent, or — or a father.”

Gods, what a scandal it would have caused, if this had come out earlier. Lucien shuddered to think what might have happened, if Amarantha had gotten hold of that information.

“I should have mentioned it. I’m sorry I didn’t,” Eos went on, her gaze drifting down to her hands. “But my diagnostic powers were suppressed, along with my other magic. I did not trust that my sense was accurate. The consequences if I’d been wrong —”

“I’m not blaming you,” Lucien assured her quickly, laying his non-injured hand over hers. “It was not your responsibility.”

“No, it was mine.” Eris slid onto the couch beside him, his face even more pale than usual, his tailored suit splattered with partial handprints of Lucien’s blood. “And may the Mother damn me for it, but I’m glad I didn’t tell you. Imagine if you’d gone to Rhodes, to seek refuge in Helion’s court after you left us? You would have been slaughtered in the sack of the city, with the rest of the royal family, and half the populace.”

“I didn’t leave you, I was chased away,” Lucien seethed, but then relented when he saw Eris’s pained expression. “I know what you mean, though.” Being with Tamlin had saved his life, even if it had put him in a different, more insidious sort of danger. Day had suffered immensely, as punishment for Hyperion’s rebellion, while Spring had been largely spared due to Tamlin’s curse.

“I’ll wrap up your hand now,” Eos interjected softly. “Try not to move it.” She carefully guided Lucien’s injured hand out of the water, then gently pressed it dry with a towel and began to wrap it with expert precision. He didn’t doubt he’d have full use of it, even with the bandages.

“You’d think Rhys would have done something to help Helion, if they’re such great friends,” Lucien said sourly, recalling the impassioned defense Helion had given at the conference. “But he didn’t lift a finger to help the Day Court in five decades.”

Eris laughed bitterly. “I wouldn’t think that whatsoever. Rhysand’s friendship is based entirely on how useful you are to him.”

Ask me how I know, his look seemed to challenge, but Lucien was well aware of his brother’s dealings with the Night Court, far more than Eris probably realized. It didn’t matter that he’d been in the human lands for most of that time, he had his sources. He’d tried not to take it personally when they’d lavished Eris with gifts at the Hewn City Solstice Ball, in an attempt to maintain his secret alliance, while they hadn’t even invited Lucien, who actually worked for them.

Not that he’d wanted to visit that cursed underground hell. It reminded him so much of Under the Mountain that he could barely stomach it. He wondered how Feyre could stand it, much less preside over it.

Did Elain enjoy the sight of her younger sister, dressed like a pleasure house dancer playacting at royalty, leering at her trapped and resentful subjects? Or Azriel stalking about like Death incarnate, intimidating the folk with promises of violence and torture? Did Elain realize there were serving-folk down there, too, and other innocents, and that they were all deathly afraid of her husband? Why was she so impassioned about the plight of Tarquin’s workers, who at least got to live in the open air, feel the sun on their faces?

She made her choice, he scolded himself. Stop thinking about it.

“Helion knows who Rhysand is. Who his people are,” Eris said. “He knows they deal in half-truths and hoard secrets. He is cunning like that, a dangerous opponent. At least Father always thought so.” He couldn’t quite keep the smirk from his lips as he said it. “They bonded over a common hatred of our family. Helion never told them exactly why he hated Autumn. Though I do think Rhysand figured it out.” And he raised an eyebrow at Lucien, who readily took his meaning.

“They never mentioned it to me,” Lucien breathed. As if he’d needed more confirmation that his friendship with Feyre had been one-sided. Rhys would tell him nothing, would delight in lording his secrets over the little fox he openly disdained, but he’d entertained some small hope that Feyre would be more decent. She was always complaining about how Tamlin never told her anything, but when it came down to it, she was just as happy to withhold information when it suited her.

The human girl you knew died Under the Mountain.

She’d thrown that little morsel in his face when he’d tried to come rescue her, and he hadn’t realized just how true it was.

“They never mentioned it to Helion, either,” Eris pointed out. His smile was almost cruel. “I wonder how he’s going to feel about that.”

“Have you not pissed him off enough for one day,” Lucien grumbled, though now his mind was racing with possibilities. Could they disrupt Day and Night’s close alliance? Would it win Helion over to their side, or would it backfire?

“Oh, I’m not going to be the one to tell him,” Eris said. “I don’t have proof, and he won’t listen to me. Though I do hear that he is more resentful of Rhys’s secrecy, and his actions during the occupation, than this morning’s speeches made it sound.”

Lucien quirked an eyebrow. “And where would you hear something like that?”

Eris chuckled. “You’re the so-called Fox of Prythian, you figure it out.”

“Typical,” Lucien muttered, but he couldn’t really be angry with Eris. They did have an audience, after all.

As though Eos could hear his thoughts, she rose up to standing, patting his bandaged-up hand. “All finished,” she announced. “You can use the hand, but go easy for the first few days. Try not to get it wet.” Her intelligent dark eyes shone with amusement. “Try not to explode any more glasses, either.”

Lucien smiled up at her. “Thank you, Eos.”

The healer returned the smile, then nodded respectfully to Eris, and departed the room, taking the blood-tinged bowl of water and stray bandages with her.

“You could do worse than a female like that,” Eris said softly, watching her depart. “She’s lovely and smart, and well respected, skilled in her magic, discreet. I’d worry about you a lot less.”

“Who, Eos? She’s far too wise and discerning to want a rascal like me,” Lucien scoffed.

Eris shook his head. “Not quite, little brother.” He gave Lucien a searching look. “I know you have a thing for younger, more impetuous girls with fiery tempers, but have you considered that your taste stinks?”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “You once proposed to Nesta Archeron, you ass. Don’t come at me about my taste in females.”

Eris’s scornful glare gave way to a boisterous laugh. It was startling, to hear Eris laugh so freely, but very welcome, and Lucien couldn’t help but join in. He laughed and laughed, and Eris laughed with him, and it was several moments before either of them were able to speak again.

“Anyway, my taste does not stink. Vassa is brilliant,” Lucien insisted, still wheezing with laughter.

“Indeed. Your firebird queen is breathtaking, and clever. She would have made a worthy High Lady of Autumn,” Eris agreed, finally catching his breath. “If she were not mortal, and pledged to rule a faraway realm, that is.” He shook his head. “You really ought to come back to Autumn, yourself, once your friends depart for the Continent.”

Lucien sighed. “You know I can’t do that, Eris.”

Eris was still chuckling, but his face grew serious. “I know you won’t ever call it home, after — everything. But you might come and visit. It would make Mother happy.” A pause, then, “Just for a little while. You could give it a chance.” Give me a chance, he might have put it.

Lucien just pressed his lips together, feeling like he would be too much of an asshole if he just said no. But there were some hurts that couldn’t be mended, no matter how much time had passed.

“You’re going to get offers from the other courts, if you haven’t already,” Eris went on, as though he’d answered. “Just do me a favor, and promise you’ll talk it over first, before making a decision.”

As it had happened, Lucien had gotten offers from other courts. All except the one that his former mate lived in, and the one where he probably actually belonged, at least according to blood and magic. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he said forlornly. “I can’t think straight right now. Not with her here, and not with Vassa and Jurian about to leave for good. I’m going to miss them so much, Eris.”

Eris nodded, swallowing hard. “I’ve already told them, but I’ll tell you now — they are to write to me if they need anything. Money, or armies. Whatever I can do. I’ll never forget what they did for you, when you needed them.”

“You don’t have to offer that,” Lucien said, startled.

“Yes. I do.” Eris’s eyes were fiery, a hint of the High Lord showing through. “I owe them. They insist otherwise, but I know better. Just like Tamlin tried to tell me that I owed him nothing, for taking you in.”

Something clicked in Lucien’s mind. “All those years that Spring was struggling, when Tamlin failed to protect his borders, I always wondered why Fath— why Beron didn’t try to annex the land. Was that your influence?”

Eris shrugged one shoulder. “It would have been a poor investment of soldiers and coin. Autumn was better served improving its own cropland, enriching its folk and securing its borders.”

“So that’s a yes, then,” Lucien persisted, and Eris didn’t deny it. He lifted his hand to run through his hair, then remembered it was bandaged up, and switched awkwardly to the other one. “I really didn’t know. About any of it.”

Eris crossed his arms. “Just you don’t get into any more trouble. Protecting you from yourself is a full time job, and I’m busy.” He rose smoothly from the couch, frowning down at his ruined suit jacket, then glamouring away the blood stains with a wave of his hand. “I left our brothers unattended, loose in the meeting hall. Cauldron knows what shit they’ve gotten into. Can I trust you to stay here while I wrangle them?”

“You already know you can’t,” Lucien laughed, then lurched unsteadily to his feet, and impulsively threw his arms around Eris. “Thank you, Eris.”

Eris froze momentarily, like he’d never hugged a soul in his half-millennium of existence, then awkwardly returned the gesture, leaning in slightly and patting Lucien’s back.

Lucien drew back, looking into the face of his eldest brother, startled to see Eris’s amber eyes tinged with red. Eris flushed a little at being caught out, then looked down at himself, grumbling, “First you bleed on my suit, now you wrinkle it beyond recognition.”

Lucien laughed all over again. “You said it yourself, I’m a menace.”

“Bastard,” Eris said gruffly, but he was smiling, too.

At that moment, the door to the suite swung open, and snippets of conversation began to float towards them. “—under consideration. Thesan takes a hands-off approach to the Consortium, as you know well,” Nuan was saying, setting her bag down on the side table in the entrance, then turning to open the door wider for the people behind her. “He considers the matter of the younglings settled.”

“It should have been, after our last conference,” another voice boomed, and both Eris and Lucien tensed at it. “The loss of any youngling is a tragedy, but —“

Then Helion’s eyes met Lucien’s from across the room, and he fell suddenly, ominously silent.

Chapter Text

“Lucien!” Nuan was rushing towards him, hands outstretched, a look of shocked concern on her face. “By the Mother. What happened?”

“I’m fine, I promise. I got myself into trouble, as usual, but Eos patched me up, good as new,” Lucien assured her, his mechanical eye clicking at her in agreement. He held out his bandaged hand to her silver one, quipping, “Although I’m almost disappointed. We could have been a matching pair.”

“Not remotely funny, asshole,” Eris snapped, cutting off Nuan’s startled bark of laughter, then took a hard step forward, angling himself in front of Lucien, blocking Helion’s path to him. The two High Lords squared off, the air in the room thickening with tension, as Eris went on icily, “Are we going to have a problem?”

“Leave, and there won’t be one. We’re meant to be having a Solar Court meeting,” Helion said crossly. “You can go slink off to your Consortium friends, plot our ruin somewhere else in the palace.”

“Or we can come back later,” Mor offered, from her perch in the doorway.

Nuan drew herself up, slipping back into her role as courtier and leader of the Dawn Court delegation. “Our suite is a neutral space,” she said sternly. “I trust you all will respect it.”

Eris said haughtily, “The last time we met in one of your neutral spaces, I almost had the life choked out of me by a Night Court brute.”

“And it was damn good entertainment,” Helion sneered, his eyes glinting with malice.

Lucien’s head was beginning to pound. He’d missed all the drama of that meeting, but he’d heard all about it, from multiple sources. Azriel had lashed out with incredible violence, nearly slaughtering his brother over a mere off-color insult, not even a true threat or challenge to duel. By rights it should have gotten him kicked out of the summit, if not banished from the Dawn Court forever. But with war imminent, and with Rhys and all his top warriors in attendance, Thesan had decided not to risk it. Nor had he acted when Feyre had nearly blasted Beron Vanserra into oblivion, and wounded Lucien’s mother in the process.

Lucien always came back to those moments, whenever he felt any glimmer of guilt about excluding Dawn from the Consortium. Thesan had failed to stand up to the Night Court in his own palace, even when the sacred laws of hospitality were repeatedly violated. It showed that he was an utterly unsafe bet for an alliance.

“We already know you don’t like each other. Just this once, can we skip the posturing?” he snapped in annoyance.

The spikes on Helion’s diadem glinted sharply. “Watch your tone with me, little one.”

Lucien faced down Helion with a furious expression. His asshole brothers always called him little, and it was also one of Rhys’s favorite ways to condescend to him. Little fox, little Lucien. “Or what?” he retorted. “Are you going to send me to bed without any supper?”

Eris swore quietly under his breath, while Helion’s courtiers took a collective step back, a few even edging towards the exit. Their High Lord looked so impossibly cold, so cruel and unrelenting, that any sane person would have immediately backed down. But there was nothing that Helion could do to him that was worse than what he’d already suffered, and at this moment, his blood was up, his patience worn utterly threadbare.

He took another step forward, facing Helion forthrightly. “I already had a father who despised me. I don’t need another one.”

Helion’s face twisted with anger, golden swirls of magic tingled at his fingertips, as though he were readying a blast of power. But Lucien felt his own magic rising, a delicious hot surge in his bones that felt utterly foreign to him, yet as familiar as sunlight. It danced within him, screaming to be released, to fire out of him in a dazzling, burning rush.

“Lucien,” Nuan said gently, her voice wobbling a bit, and his head jerked towards her, the power immediately simmering back down when he saw her nervous expression. He risked a glance down at his skin, which was glowing intensely.

“Well, that answers that,” one of Helion’s courtiers murmured.

Helion’s eyes never strayed from Lucien, but he registered the hushed talking behind him, and barked over his shoulder, “Out.”

His courtiers obeyed at once, retreating rapidly through the suite doorway, Mor close behind them. The command in Helion’s voice had been sharp enough that even the Dawn Court faeries obeyed, Nuan giving Lucien a last encouraging nod before slipping back out, Vesper’s wing shielding her from Helion. Eos, having heard the commotion, came rushing back out of some inner chamber, then immediately bolted when she took in the scene, the door slamming emphatically shut behind her.

Lucien didn’t dare take his good eye off Helion, but he let his mechanical eye scan the suite, checking for glamoured signatures. He was almost sure any servants unlucky enough to be nearby would have scattered at the first sign of trouble, but he didn’t fancy any of them getting caught in the crossfire. When he was satisfied that they were truly alone, he dared to meet Helion’s gaze directly, weathering the intense scrutiny and anger that radiated from his father.

If it had been Beron Vanserra he was facing, he would have averted his eyes and hunched his shoulders, made himself more inconspicuous and conciliatory. If not for his own sake, then for his mother’s, for Beron wasn’t above punishing her for his insolence, knowing how Lucien would suffer all the more for it. Tamlin’s rages had seemed mild in comparison, if only because Tamlin did not inflict violence out of spite or for his own sick enjoyment, but he’d still tried to avoid his friend’s temper, placate and talk him down from his anger. And he’d had to frequently bite his tongue around Rhys and his court, who tossed off threats as easy as breathing.

The thought of having to do that again, with yet another High Lord, much less his father, made Lucien sick to his stomach.

“Brother,” Eris said, shattering the silence. “You don’t have to —“

“Yes, I do,” Lucien answered without turning around, never taking off his eyes off the High Lord staring him down. “Go, Eris. I’ll be all right.”

Eris stepped into his line of sight, his fiery gaze fixed on Helion. “Will he?”

Helion glowed incandescent with anger. “That you are even asking is a grievous insult.” But then he ran a broad hand over his face, looking more despairing than furious, and his glow seemed to dim. “By the Mother and Cauldron, no harm will come to him.”

Eris nodded briskly, accepting this answer. Helion was honorable, despite the company he chose to keep. He turned towards Lucien, giving him a long look that Lucien could well guess the meaning of, then winnowed away in an orange-tinged flash.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Helion gestured towards his bandaged hand. “How were you injured?”

Why do you give a shit, Lucien almost retorted, but he thought he ought to be a little conciliatory. “It was an accident. I exploded a glass.”

Helion’s brows rose. “Through air manipulation?”

“Apparently?” Lucien had been too upset to pay attention to how he’d done it.

His father tsked, “You must wield better control over your gifts, or you will be a danger to yourself and others.”

Lucien’s cheeks heated. He hated being scolded like a naughty youngling, all the more so because Helion was right, Cauldron damn it. “I never realized I had this power, so I have never tried to train in it,” he admitted.

“So you really didn’t know. About — any of it.” Helion fiddled with the armband on his bicep, then dropped his arm abruptly and strode forward, yanking out a chair from a side table and lowering himself into it, bracing his forearms on his thighs. “It seems we have that in common, then.”

Lucien mirrored him, sinking back onto the couch, first extending his unbandaged hand to glamour away the splatters of blood that he’d trailed there. Helion noted that, too, but made no comment on the use of magic, only remarking, “This has all been very shocking.”

Well, that’s an understatement. Shocking didn’t even begin to describe it.

Lucien shifted uncomfortably on the couch, having no good response to give. A million questions rattled around in his mind, all of them far too personal and intrusive for this strange, tentative conversation.

“I came to this conference only reluctantly,” Helion said. “And mostly because Day’s standing has slipped in Prythian. Working around the Consortium’s trade barriers has not been easy.”

“It was not our intention to impose hardships on other courts, only replenish our own depleted coffers, strengthen our own borders, help our own people,” Lucien said defensively, for he had nothing personal against the people of the Day Court, or Helion or his courtiers. “We suffered greatly during the occupation and war.”

“We,” Helion spat. “You speak as though you’re one of them.”

“I am. In every way that matters,” Lucien shot back. “My mother is from Autumn, and I was raised there.” Even if I might wish I hadn’t been. “Then Tamlin took me in when I was exiled. We’ve had our differences, but he saved my life when it really mattered. Spring was as close as I had to a home for a long time.”

“You had a home, you just didn’t know it,” Helion seethed, his fingers clenching and then releasing again. “You were misled, as I was, by your family, but it could not be clearer that Day Court magic roils in your veins. I could feel it the moment I arrived for the conference. It is shocking to me that you did not suspect sooner. Have you never wondered about where you came by your abilities? Why you were able to see things others didn’t?”

“I thought it was my prosthetic,” Lucien explained, his mechanical eye clicking as though wanting to show itself off.

Helion made a derisive scoffing noise. “The Dawn Court has some gifted tinkerers, but no mere contraption can replace magical talent. Have you never summoned light, or cleaved wards, or disrupted enchantments? Even by accident?”

Lucien was second guessing every experience he’d ever had, trying to tease out the threads of Day Court power. “I did cleave through the King of Hybern’s spellwork once.”

Helion’s solemn expression shifted into a grin, and he leaned forward with interest. “Did you now? My scholars will be eager to hear all about it.” Then he caught himself, as though he hadn’t meant to be quite so agreeable, and he straightened again. “You’re said to be sneaky, and cunning and clever. I’m surprised you didn’t work out your own secret, especially after thwarting such a skilled opponent.”

Lucien felt his anger rising. “I was a little preoccupied at the time,” he said through clenched teeth. He’d been too worried about getting to Elain, and trying to fend off Feyre’s attempts to ruin his life, to dwell much on his feat of magic. Then there had been his flight to the Continent, wrangling Vassa away from the Lake, preparing for war, and an uneasy peacetime under the Night Court’s dominion.

And always the mating bond, clouding his judgment, teasing at the edges of his awareness even when he tried to avoid it. That had been the only magic he’d thought about, that infernal link to Elain that had dominated his life and informed all his choices, up until the moment she’d severed it. He suppressed the urge to press his hand to the spot, tried to shove her from his mind altogether. He couldn’t afford to lose control again.

Lucien took a deep breath, and tried to speak matter of factly. “I was deceived, just as you were. Eris was going to let Mother tell me, and she was waiting until Beron was dead - not that I could talk with her while in exile.” He sighed deeply, recalling all of the long years he couldn’t so much as write to his mother, or risk her being punished. “And whoever else had suspicions never mentioned them to me. The healers in Dawn doubted their observations, due to the drain on their powers. I don’t know what Rhys’s excuse was.”

“Rhys?” Helion looked startled. “Áine said no one else knew of this secret, other than herself, Beron, and Eris, and the healer who attended to your birth.”

“Eris seemed to think Rhys knew,” Lucien said.

“Eris is a devious little shit,” Helion growled.

Of course Lucien could acknowledge that Eris was devious — in fact, his brother prided himself on it — but he bristled at the criticism anyway. “At least Eris tried to protect me,” he retorted.

“Your brother acts in his own self-interest,” Helion said dismissively.

“As opposed to Rhys, who is so kind and selfless?” Lucien burst out. “Perhaps they are more alike than I would prefer, but I didn't see where Eris plunged other courts into ruin to shield one city that was already hidden. And Eris has never threatened our mother.”

Helion launched himself up from the chair, and he was looming over Lucien in two quick strides. “What vile, baseless accusation is this,” he thundered.

Lucien shot up to his feet, refusing to give one inch of ground. He stared defiantly into his father’s face, which was so much like his own that he felt like he were arguing with his own distorted reflection. “I don’t think Rhys would even try to deny it. Not when Feyre and Tamlin were both there as witnesses. He threatened to make the whole Autumn Court bleed, especially its darling Lady, if I didn’t back down and lower my weapon.”

Helion took a stumbling step back. “It — it must have been because you provoked him.”

“Of course it would be my fault, wouldn’t it,” Lucien shouted. “I was trying to defend Feyre from him, to preserve any chance of the curse being broken, but Rhys had some other scheme afoot, and of course it’s my fault for getting in the way of it.”

Helion tried to interject, but Lucien wasn’t finished. “You’ll never blame the most powerful one, who held the most cards, who had the most influence in the situation. Cauldron forbid he takes any responsibility for the harm he’s done, actually makes amends for anything. We’re just supposed to forget it happened, or go down on our knees and thank him for using us. And you wonder why the Consortium keeps its distance?”

“That is enough. Rhys and his Inner Circle are very old friends, and I won’t hear this slander,” Helion declared hotly, though Lucien could see he was rattled, like he was actually considering the point. The possibility that Rhys would have hurt Autumn’s darling Lady, just to get back at the son she hadn’t seen in decades, and that his Court of Dreams would excuse it. “And didn’t you join the Night Court willingly? Aren’t you meant to be the Cursebreaker’s friend?”

“I had thought so,” Lucien said miserably. He swallowed hard, determined not to say any more on that subject to Helion. He and Feyre had too much history between them, too many mistakes on both sides, and he knew he’d never truly forgiven for his, no matter how many of hers he chose to let go. “And it isn’t slander. Everyone knows who Rhys is, what he’s done. You were Under the Mountain, you saw it for yourself.” He raised an eyebrow in challenge. “I don’t recall him ever favoring Day, but I don’t know what secret deals you had with him. Perhaps he did intervene for you, in secret.”

Helion stared off into the distance, his face clouding with sorrow, as though he could see straight to the Middle, to the cursed mountain where they’d once all been imprisoned. “Rhysand was unable to render aid during the occupation, to let on that we had any sort of friendship. It would have been too risky.”

“Bullshit,” Lucien snapped. “Even in his weakened state, he could speak mind-to-mind, and he had spies that stayed carefully hidden.” The twins were Elain’s closest friends — he wondered if they’d ever told her about Under the Mountain, from their perspective. “Rhys is the one person who could have helped you and your people, and he chose not to do it.”

“We all made choices,” Helion said hoarsely. “Yours almost got you killed. Not everyone is as foolish and reckless.”

Lucien swallowed down all his disappointment. “I suppose I should have kept my mouth shut, and watch Feyre be eaten by the wyrm, after all. Then we could all have another thousand years of Amarantha’s rule to look forward to.” His mechanical eye started to click rapidly, as it always did when he got emotional, and he squeezed his eyes shut to try to control it. “Look, you might be my father by birth, but I don’t need anything from you. Certainly not a gods-damned lecture.”

Helion’s jaw clenched. “You are all charm and politeness with everyone else, but with me you’re determined to be difficult.”

“I don’t need any more critics, I’ve had enough of those in my life already,” Lucien said bitterly. “And I don’t need to hear my enemies praised, either. If you’re determined to throw in with the Night Court, fine, but don’t expect me to hang around for it.”

And he stormed past Helion, heading for the door to the suite, determined to put as much distance between himself and his father as possible.

Chapter Text

“Of course. We understand completely,” Tarquin assured him. He was giving Lucien an easygoing smile that was quite at odds with the concern in his voice, the slight pinch of his brow further betraying his worry. “This afternoon’s meetings are all routine administrative matters. We’ll brief you on any developments, if that’s even necessary.”

“I’m sure Eris will give me an earful,” Lucien said. More like a snide I told you so that he didn’t feel like hearing right now. “It’s just, I need some time to work things out. I’d be more of a hindrance than anything.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm his roiling stomach. He was furious — with Helion, mostly, but with himself, as well. He’d been foolish to think that Helion would listen to him, just because of their blood connection. Not when Lucien was the reason Helion had lost his mate, the reason he’d become close to the Night Court to begin with. Helion didn’t care what Rhys might have said or done, or failed to do for him, as long as he had an ally against hated Autumn. The irony of it was almost too much to bear. If anyone had the right to hate Autumn, especially when Beron Vanserra ruled it, surely Lucien did.

He ruined both of our lives, he wanted to scream at Helion. He killed my chance at love just as surely as he killed yours. Even more so, for Jesminda was truly gone, while Helion’s mate was alive and still loved him.

The air shimmered around Lucien, and he yanked back on his power, before he exploded anything, or incinerated the room around him. Where had this power been, when he’d truly needed it?

“I’ll take the spelled parchment with me,” he said. “You can get in touch if anything comes up, or if Vassa or Jurian have questions.” They were still elsewhere in the palace, meeting privately with Briar and Elain. He had no idea what to hope for, with them all in a room together, other than that he wouldn’t soundly regret suggesting it.

“Don’t worry about that,” Cresseida was scolding him. “Nothing could possibly be that urgent. Just go take care of yourself, and come back when you’re ready.” She was looking pointedly at his bandaged hand, and Lucien readily took her meaning — they couldn’t afford any more incidents. He had to get himself under control, wrangle his stupid Day Court magic, and put aside his personal sorrows and disappointments, or any good he tried to accomplish would be ruined.

“If I see Kal, I’ll send him back your way,” Lucien promised, and Tarquin’s smile slipped a little more. No one had seen Kallias for hours, ever since he’d stormed out of the meeting hall in pursuit of his furious High Lady. Viviane had been spotted out shopping with her sister, and Mor had been with them. Lucien could only assume that husband and wife were still quarreling.

If he hadn’t been so pissed off, consumed by his own pain and fury, he might have laughed at how the tables had turned — how Tamlin had been the most restrained of them all, the most reasonable and balanced, while the rest of them were embroiled in their own personal conflicts. He’d even managed a whole conversation with Elain, despite the fact that she was Feyre’s sister, and she’d smiled at him, Cauldron damn it.

Don’t think about her, or you’re going to actually lose it.

Lucien made his farewells to the High Lord and Lady, then slipped from the room, stopping off briefly in his empty suite to freshen up. He changed out of his bloodied tunic, feeling foolish all over again for his outburst, and reached for a simple cotton button-down shirt, figuring that the heat outside would be sweltering. He stashed a pouch of coins in a pocket realm, along with the spelled parchment the Consortium used for all correspondence, then headed to the bathroom mirror.

His reflection stared uneasily back at him. The scars Amarantha had raked into his cheek still jarred him sometimes — though it was close to a century now since he’d earned them, they’d been hidden behind his gods-damned mask for most of that time, and it was only recently that he’d had to reckon with them in all of their viciousness. Sometimes he could barely stand to look at his face, at that constant reminder of how ugly and terrifying life could be, and sometimes he felt a swelling of pride that he’d survived, despite everything.

But now he felt like Helion was watching him, too, glaring at him through the mirror in silent rebuke. We all made choices. Yours almost got you killed. Not everyone is as foolish and reckless. He almost told the reflection to go to hell, that he didn’t need its stupid judgment, then pointedly looked down and away from the mirror, needing anything else to focus on for his own sanity. He rolled up his sleeves and tied back his hair simply, then switched out his formal shoes for open-toed sandals, in concession to the weather and to help him blend in. The less he looked like the heir to the Day Court, or like anyone at all important, the better.

Then he focused his magic, casting a mild glamour. He would retain enough of an aura to keep away criminals and miscreants, but tone down his magical signature to where he wouldn’t frighten the passersby or attract undue attention. Folk would sense he had power, but not question the amount or the court of origin. He could just be a person for a few hours, and not have to live up to some stupid ideal, or once again prove to be a disappointment.

A few minutes later, Lucien was outside in the heat and the sunshine, strolling along one boardwalk and then another, letting the salty breeze and the pounding of the waves lull his jangled nerves. His senses stretched out, welcoming the rays of light that caressed his skin, taking in the sights and smells of the seaside near the palace, the mostly High Fae crowd adorned in silks and other airy fabrics. There were many who looked to be wealthy tourists, dipping in and out of the seaside art galleries peddling paintings of sunsets and ocean creatures, or shopping for pearls and coral jewelry. His heart clenched, recalling the pearls he’d carefully selected for Elain’s last Solstice present, and he picked up his pace, desiring to leave the fancy shops behind along with that sour old memory.

But he couldn’t stay bitter long, not with all of Adriata before him. The city was a glittering jewel, an architectural marvel of columns and domes, and he breathed in deeply, savoring the view. The city was making a good recovery, with most buildings now repaired, and active construction on all the others. And the harbor was once again packed with vessels, each bearing the Consortium’s insignia, bustling with faeries of every class, High Fae and lesser fae mingling together, even a few stray humans here and there. That sight especially gratified him, for although they hadn’t yet managed to integrate the palace, the rest of the city was another matter. No place with a harbor could ever be static, with the constant coming and going of strangers, with their differing ideas and ways of living.

Lucien shoved his hands into his pockets, humming along to the lilting tunes played on steel drums and guitars, and turned from the main thoroughfare to head into the marshy lowlands, following the winding road over the bridge to the mainland, further away from the city center. The buildings faded from marble to concrete, the domes giving way to plain metal sheeting or even palm fronds on a few of the more rickety dwellings, and the throng of stylish city dwellers and visitors thinned out into mostly lesser fae laborers and serving folk, trudging or scurrying past him on their errands. 

Something inside Lucien unclenched, to be amongst them. He hadn’t been down this way in many a year, since before the occupation, but he’d made a habit of frequenting the lesser fae enclaves during his old days as Tamlin’s emissary, and had even snuck off a few times when he’d visited Adriata on Autumn state visits. Beron would have thrashed him raw for days and weeks afterwards, if he’d ever gotten caught fraternizing with such rabble, which had made Lucien want to do it all the more.

He headed for the insula’s tavern, remembering how it usually buzzed with patrons, sitting in groups of threes and fours, knocking back drinks and roaring with laughter, at least from what he always remembered. But when Lucien stepped inside, the mood struck him as subdued, even somber. The little tables were mostly vacant, with a drinker here or there staring morosely into a glass, and he didn’t recognize any of the customers, nor the High Fae female who flitted about serving them. They all looked a little worse for wear, their simple garments just this side of shabby, their faces careworn and their bodies hunched in defeat, or exhaustion.

The ravages of occupation and war sat heavily on them, but he thought there had to be more to it — that the haunted looks in their eyes were tinged with anger. He was sure his own eyes looked the same, or at least the one that wasn’t made of gears and metal.

He slid into a seat at an empty table, noting the suspicious looks cast in his direction, then raised a finger to get the waitress’s attention. She blinked several times, as though surprised to see him, then hastened over to take his order, her hands trembling almost imperceptibly as they clutched her empty drinks tray. “Well met, my lord,” she said, with a brightness that felt wholly put on. “Can I interest you in a drink, before you conduct your inspection?”

“Oh, I’m not an inspector,” Lucien said, thinking that he now understood the glares he’d been getting. “Just thirsty.” He took out his coin pouch, then laid several marks on the table, suppressing a smile at the waitress’s impressed reaction. “A round for everyone.”

The female’s eyes widened in pleased surprise, and her hands steadied around her tray, before she risked reaching out for the coins on the table. She slid them quickly into her pocket, as though worried that someone else might reach out and snatch them. “And for yourself, my lord?”

My lord — as though he’d earned any right to rule over them, or expect special deference just for being High Fae. It was a fact of life, but he hated it. “I’ll have what they’re having,” he said firmly.

The waitress nodded, eyeing him skeptically, then scurried off to fetch the orders, and Lucien pondered the odd pall of gloom that was cast over the tavern. Surely times were better now, with more money to go around, with the Consortium’s efforts? Or had success not trickled down to the poorer, non-High Fae areas?

You’re meant to be relaxing, he scolded himself. The Consortium’s business can wait for later.

But his work was so much a part of him, the issues so dear to his heart, that it was hard to turn his thoughts off of it. And if he didn’t think about work, what did he have left? Mourning Vassa and Jurian’s impending departure? Pondering Helion’s friendship with the Night Court, that he apparently valued above his own son? Or Elain, casually criticizing all his efforts, and giving her attention and smiles to Tamlin? He clenched and unclenched his fists several times, letting the dull throb in his bandaged hand ground him.

“Here you are, my lord, and much obliged to you,” the waitress said, a bit breathlessly, plunking down a very full pint of beer on the table. The liquid sloshed, splattering a bit on the cuff of his sleeve, and she let out a horrified gasp, dabbing at it forcefully with her towel. “Oh, Cauldron, I am so, so sorry—“

Lucien held up his bandaged hand. “Please don’t trouble yourself. I’ve already bled on my clothes today, so a bit of alcohol is really nothing.”

The female stared at him for a moment, her towel dangling limply from her hand, then slowly tucked it back into her apron. She had the same dark skin and glossy silver hair that most Summer fae did, and soft hazel eyes that seemed jaded and weary. Lucien wondered whether she’d been Under the Mountain — probably not, for she didn’t seem to recognize him — or whether she’d been harmed in the sack of Adriata, or lost her home or family during the war itself. Whatever it was, it was clear to him she had suffered.

“It’s been many decades since I’ve been back to this area,” Lucien went on, hoping to put her at some kind of ease. “How have things fared, since the War ended?”

She shrugged, fiddling with the end of the towel, then raised her eyes to meet his. “I wouldn’t rightly know. I’m actually a recent arrival.” Lucien just regarded her patiently, sipping his drink, sensing that she might say more. And indeed, she took a bracing breath before admitting, “It’s not common to see one of our kind around here, what with things the way they are. You ought to be cautious.”

“Oh? That’s valuable advice, to be sure.” Strange — he’d never had to worry about being High Fae here before. He shifted, leaning forward on his elbows, then took out a few more gold coins and laid them flat on the table. “Anything in particular I should be aware of?”

The female stared hungrily at the gold, but didn’t yet reach out to touch it. Instead, she looked around furtively, then went on, “The folk are restless. Surely you sense it. If I weren’t married to a lesser faerie myself, I’d hightail it back to the island.” She sighed, her eyes momentarily fluttering closed, as though exhaustion were overtaking her. “Quintus is always saying things will get better, once we get a change in leadership, but he’s always been too much the optimist. That’s why we’re stuck out here to begin with.”

A change in leadership? Lucien wondered at it, but didn’t dare to ask directly, not just yet. Instead, he searched his memory in vain — the name Quintus didn’t sound at all familiar. not that he was acquainted with many lesser faeries from Summer. “Do you think it truly hopeless?” he asked, reaching out with his uninjured hand to pick up his drink, and subtly nudging the coins further towards her direction.

The waitress hesitated, seeming to consider her words carefully. “You’re not from around here, and you’re not an inspector. Are you here on any particular business?”

“Just relaxation,” Lucien assured her. “I’m staying in Adriata for a few weeks, but the city was getting to me. I needed a little change in scenery.” It wasn’t technically a lie, though he was leaving out everything important. But he sensed that he ought not say too much about his business with the palace, or his role in the Consortium, what with talk of a change in leadership. “My name’s Lucien.”

She inclined her own head respectfully. “I am called Fulvia.”

“Well, Fulvia, do you still serve food here? I’ve skipped lunch, and I’m in the mood for a good roasted fish, if you’ve got it.”

“You’ve got good taste. That’s our house special,” Fulvia said, her lips curling up into a cautious half-smile. “I’ll bring some out directly.”

“See if anyone else wants some. My treat,” Lucien said, adding another coin to the pile, and Fulvia beamed at him before rushing off to fulfill the order. The tension in the room seemed to be easing off by degrees, and Lucien’s own heartache along with it. If only all problems could be solved so easily.

Then the waitress was back, bearing steaming plates of delicious-smelling fish, and Lucien tucked in, savoring the simple flavors. “Why don’t you take a load off your feet, and join me for a spell?” he asked, indicating the empty chair at his table.

Fulvia’s brow crinkled, as though she might refuse, but then relented, settling stiffly into the chair. “It’s slow at this time of day anyway. I suppose I ought to rest when I can.”

“They keep you busy, eh?”

She nodded. “Managing the dinner rush is quite the whirlwind. The folk are starving, after a full day on the job. Most people around here don’t have their own cooking fires,” she explained.

Still? Lucien had hoped that the infrastructure would have improved, after all these decades. “More business for the tavern, then.”

She nodded, then bit her lip, as though unsure what could be safely said, so he braced his forearms on the table and leaned a bit forward. “Is it really true what you were saying, that High Fae aren’t welcome in these parts anymore?” he said, keeping his voice low.

“No one’s going to say so outright,” Fulvia replied. “They wouldn’t dare, especially not when it’s a sentry or inspector. But I hear talk, you know, here in the tavern. More than they probably realize.”

“Then how are you managing, being High Fae yourself?” he asked.

The female sighed, as though resigning herself to the reality of her situation. “Everyone is respectful enough, to my face. When Quintus — that’s my husband — when he’s about, they’re actually friendly.” She grimaced, tucking a loose strand of her hair back behind her ear. “But I definitely don’t think they trust me, and I suppose I can’t blame them. I did get him fired from the palace.”

Lucien quirked an eyebrow at her. “Well, that’s got to be quite the story.”

“You’d think so, but really it isn’t,” she said sadly. “Quin held a job as an animal carer for the High Lord’s hippocamps. I used to visit the palace on occasion, representing my family’s business. I knew he worked there, and I wanted to see him — where my mother and sisters couldn’t scold me for it. A lesser faerie, they’d say, don’t you think you can do better? You’ll make a laughingstock of our family, and make trouble for him. And sure enough, one day someone saw us together, and told his superiors, and he was sacked.” She looked into the distance, a flash of anger coloring her features. “If my family thought that would end things between us, it did the exact opposite. I emptied my coffers, took what little money I’d saved, and ran away with him that very night. We were married in secret, and came here, where my family wouldn’t deign to come find us.”

“Romantic,” Lucien said, taking a long swig of his drink before he was tempted to pour his own jealous heart out to her.

“It was, at first,” Fulvia said, her dark skin taking on a rosy blush. “But what I’d saved is long gone now, so here I am working tables, and Quin has to take work wherever he finds it. It’s been an age since we’ve had extra coin to spend on anything. Just keeping the roof in good repair takes all my salary.” She shrugged, looking resigned to it. “Quintus keeps promising that times will get better, that one day he’ll regain his job at the palace and we can move back to the city. But I don’t see how that’s going to happen, even if this new leader keeps all his promises.”

“I’ve heard the High Lord is wise and fair,” Lucien said diplomatically, taking another bite of the fish. “Oh, this is delicious.”

“Thank you, I cook it all fresh every morning,” she said, a smile briefly chasing across her features, but it was quickly replaced with her usual worried expression. “But I didn’t mean the High Lord, you know.”

“The High Lady, then?”

Fulvia snorted. “Most folk don’t believe she’s got any real power.”

That struck Lucien as utterly unfair to Cresseida, who’d done more for Adriata than anyone, and had plenty of power at her fingertips. But he tried to stamp out his indignation. Stay calm, get information, he told himself firmly. You won’t change anyone’s mind with a lecture.

“And what do you think?” he asked gently.

“I think —“ Fulvia broke off, leaning close enough to him that he could smell the faint odor of sweat and fear wafting off her. “I think my poor Quin’s got himself into trouble, mixed up with some unsavory folk. They’re talking about awful things, violent and traitorous things, and I just don’t know what to do about it.”

That serious, then. Did Tarquin have any inkling of this? Who would even want to plot against him? Lucien took a steadying breath, then dropped his voice into the barest whisper. “Has he told you who this leader is?”

“Not by name,” she said. “But they meet regularly, up in the mountains. Quin says it’s lots of different folks, High Fae and lesser alike. Even humans.”

“This leader sounds like quite a figure,” Lucien remarked, his brain frantically swirling with possibilities. “What’s he promised, to keep them all coming back, and putting up with each other’s presence?”

“Money. Land. A new beginning, and revenge for old grievances,” Fulvia said, her lower lip trembling. “More than that I don’t really know. I’m afraid to ask too many questions.” She let out a startled laugh. “How you’ve got me prattling on. Have you worked some sort of enchantment on me, to loosen my tongue?”

“If I had, I would hardly be eager to admit it,” Lucien said, forcing a laugh, though inwardly he seized up with alarm. “But I’m afraid that is beyond my magical knowledge.”

He could probably learn, if he was ever sufficiently desperate. There were probably all sorts of spells that his Day Court magic would allow him to access. But the prospect of humbling himself before Helion, of having to accept his father’s judgment and corrections, even indirectly through a scholar or tutor, instantly put a stop to that line of thinking. There was nothing worth that, no matter what happened. He’d just have to remain ignorant.

“All right,” Fulvia said warily. “But Quintus would scold me for being so incautious. I’ve probably told you far too much already. What’s to keep you from causing us trouble?”

Lucien gazed forthrightly at Fulvia, swallowed thickly, and said, “I once had a lesser fae love, just like you. But we — didn’t make it.”

Fulvia’s suspicious expression instantly softened. “Had, did you say? What happened to her?”

“Killed. By my father.” His voice broke, and he swallowed again before managing to go on, “We would have had a hard life together, doomed to exile, scraping by with little coin, but I would have endured it willingly. More than willingly — it would have been my pleasure.”

“How awful,” Fulvia murmured, fiddling with the plain silver band on her finger. “I don’t normally think of myself as lucky, with the way things have turned out. But if someone killed Quintus, I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Lucien understood that sentiment all too well. How desperately he’d wanted to join Jesminda in death, to be at peace at last. He had only survived out of pure spite, knowing how much his death would please Beron.

He took another bracing sip of his drink before continuing, “So you see, my interest in your tale is personal.” Not just personal, but she didn’t need to know that. “Jes and I never got to have our life together, but you and your husband have made it this far. I’d like to help you both, if I can.”

Fulvia’s eyes grew watery, and he tugged a handkerchief loose from his pants pocket and offered it to her. “I fear this is beyond any help you could offer. He’s gotten himself all mixed up with these firebrands, in whatever scheme they’re concocting. If he backs out now, they’ll find it suspicious, maybe even kill him for his faithlessness.” Her shoulders shook, and she hastily pressed the handkerchief to her eyes. Lucien watched her miserably, unable to find anything comforting to say, and at last she continued, through her tears, “Even if we had enough money to run, they would catch up to us eventually. There’d be nowhere safe.”

“Unless the plot was foiled,” Lucien suggested. “If the leader was found out, and prosecuted.”

Fulvia looked horrified. “Then who’s to say Quintus wouldn’t suffer with him? He could be executed as a traitor!”

“Not if it turns out he’s been undercover,” Lucien said.

She momentarily looked hopeful. “Do you truly think the High Lord would be lenient?”

“From all that I know of him, yes. Without question,” Lucien said. “It’s the High Lady that would require convincing. She is far less forgiving than Tarquin. But, she is fair, and also practical. I can’t make promises, but I have done business with the High Lord and Lady, and I flatter myself that I can predict their decisions. I do believe your husband would be pardoned.”

“Even if I were to believe you, we would have to go into exile, or his life would still be in danger,” Fulvia said worriedly. “And without much coin to our names, I don’t know how we would manage.”

“Now that I can help with,” Lucien said, and subtly tugged on the strands of his magic, materializing the coin pouch in his hand. Fulvia’s eyes widened at it. “This is for you, free of obligation. If you’re able to get more specific information — the name of the leader or his top co-conspirators, or anything about what they’re planning to do — there could be more where that came from.” He nudged the bag towards her. “Go on. Fix your roof, once and for all, if you think there’s a chance that you won’t have to flee. Or keep it, to use in case of emergency.”

Fulvia took the bag, clutching it tightly between her fingers, and began to quietly weep again. “How do I find you? You can’t keep coming back here, or the folk will start to get suspicious. You’ll be lucky if you’re not attacked on the road when you leave, especially now they see you’ve got money.”

“Don’t worry about me, I’m not defenseless,” Lucien assured her, and eased off a bit on his glamour, letting a hint of his magic show through.

Fulvia’s skin paled several shades lighter. “Who are you, truly?”

If only I knew, he was tempted to answer. I just found out my whole life was a lie, and my true father probably doesn’t want me, and my mate didn’t either, and I’m about to say goodbye to my best friends in the world, and I don’t know where I’m going to go afterwards…

But none of that was Fulvia’s problem, so he said simply, “I’m someone who’s trying to help you, and prevent a disaster.” When she seemed to accept this answer, he went on, “And it’s quite easy to get in touch, actually. Inside the bag is a piece of spelled paper. Just write on it with any implement, and I’ll be able to see it. Any details you can find out, no matter how trivial they might seem.”

Fulvia nodded, a new hopeful gleam in her eyes. “Quintus should be home by dinnertime. I’ll ask him about everything then.” Louder, she said, “Will that be all, sir? Can I pack you another portion to go?”

Lucien followed her cues, answering that yes, he’d very much like some food for his journey, and he watched as she got up and departed the table, discreetly slipping the coin purse into her apron pocket.

Who the hell would plot against Tarquin, of all people?

He could believe that some lesser fae might have grudges, might feel frustrated with the slow pace of progress, but to actually believe they could kill a High Lord — no, they would never try to risk it. They would have to be led by someone strong and powerful, someone who thought the power might actually choose them. It would have to be a High Fae, possibly someone already in government — possibly someone attending the conference.

He furtively glanced around the tavern, which was still mercifully near-empty, then pulled out a second sheet of spelled parchment, and scribbled out a quick message with trembling fingers.

Secure the palace. I’ll explain later.

Suddenly Fulvia was in front of him, holding out a paper-wrapped parcel. He hastily folded up his parchment, sliding it into his lap, then tried to appear nonchalant as he looked up at her. “There you go, my lord. All packed for your journey.”

“Much appreciated for your kindness,” he said formally, inclining his head to her. “I’d best be on my way, if I’m to get anywhere before nightfall. Thank you for your indulgence of a weary traveler.”

Then he was up from the table, blinking in the late afternoon sunshine, and he started off down the path deliberately in the wrong direction, just on the off chance that he might be followed. He’d winnow, if it came to that, but he didn’t want the suspicion to fall back on Fulvia, or tip off her husband’s conspiring companions that any hint of their plot had been leaked.

He went on for a while, trudging through increasingly marshy ground, the grasses growing thornier and the ground soggier, until at last he was confident that he was alone, and he unfurled the parchment to check for an answer.

There were several messages that he scanned quickly — Tarquin confirming he’d deployed the sentries, Eris demanding that Lucien return immediately and explain himself in person, Kallias saying he was on his way to the boardwalk to retrieve Viviane and her sister — but it was Tamlin’s message, down at the bottom, that grabbed Lucien’s attention.

Briar and Elain are still with the humans.

Lucien cursed quietly under his breath, then fished for his pen inside his pants pocket, and leaned the parchment against his thigh so that he could scrawl out an answer.

Stay there. Guard Tarquin and Cress. I’ll go get them.

Chapter Text

Adriata glowed orangey-red in the late afternoon sunshine as Lucien trudged down the path back through the marshes, the glittering expanse of the sea beckoning him onwards. But he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the path, kept his strides steady, even though he was starting to panic.

Briar and Elain are still with the humans.

Briar and Elain. But not Jurian and Vassa? Lucien struggled to understand it, to parse through the hint to figure out what had happened. Had they split up for the sake of the mission, or had they quarreled? He shuddered to think of what might have been said, how Vassa’s temper might have gotten the better of her. It was stupid to think they could all work together.

He quickened his pace, trying to use the rhythm of his steps to calm his pounding heart, direct his thinking to analyze the situation. He had to retrace their steps, discover their destination, approach with caution. If they had made contact with humans, if they were in the midst of negotiations, he might spoil everything by bursting in, or frighten them all by making a scene.

A new, uncomfortable thought occurred to him. What if the humans were in the conspiracy that threatened Summer? Would they try to ransom Briar and Elain back to the palace, realizing they were valuable hostages, use them somehow as leverage?

It was a paranoid thought, a desperate thought, but the possibility made him burn hot with anger. The humans were almost certainly innocent, or pawns in someone else’s game, but still they were vulnerable — she was vulnerable — out here, unprotected.

What if you can’t find her in time?

No. He wouldn’t even let himself think it. He would get to her in time, and save her. There was no other alternative.

The nagging voice inside him hissed, You couldn’t save her from the Cauldron. How many nights had he lain awake, tormented by her helpless panicked screams ringing in his ears, then those awful moments of utter silence when she’d disappeared into its dark waters, then her shivering body, wet and exposed, sprawled out on the floor?

He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck, which was prickling unpleasantly against his loose collar. A profound uneasiness crept down his spine, a sense that danger was lurking, and he straightened, wondering if he was being followed. He resisted the urge to cast out his magic, but strode more quickly through the marshes, heading for the bridge that connected Adriata to the mainland. A lone guard was posted there, gazing not at the paths to the bridge but off into the mountainous distance.

Lucien prepared to winnow past him, to avoid any hint of a confrontation. But suddenly two males burst out into the clearing, one jumping onto the guard’s back, the other brandishing a dagger, and Lucien broke into a run straight towards them.

The guard twisted, easily throwing the first male off, and had his own sword out in a well-practiced maneuver. The downed male cursed, leaping up to his feet, and barreled into his opponent from the side, knocking them both to the ground and out of view. But he was hollering curses to his companion, who had dropped his own weapon in surprise, like he hadn’t expected to encounter resistance. Then he seemed to recover his senses, and pounced, his yells swallowed up by the tall reedy grasses, which thrashed and swayed as the fighters tussled.

Lucien swore under his breath, and winnowed, slamming down into the midst of the struggle and yanking the smaller attacker up by his collar, then reached down again to grab for the other. A shield of curved light and air enveloped him, tinging yellow at the edges of his vision, easily repelling the blows both males rained down on it.

“Stop that,” he said sternly, his voice resonating oddly within the shield’s bubble, “you’re in enough trouble. Attacking people out on the road, without provocation? You’ll answer to the High Lord and Lady for it.” And he let out a small amount of his power, blasting both of them back from him, sending them sprawling into the mud, where they lay stunned, groaning softly.

Then Lucien reached down to extend a hand to the final combatant, nearly drawing back in shock when he saw who it was. “Bron?”

“Lucien?” Tamlin’s sentry looked just as surprised, a little fearful even. It took Lucien a moment to realize why. Had Bron truly never seen him use magic before? He pulled back on the shield, and it dissipated with a pop, echoing into the humid air.

He held out his hand again, and Bron took it, letting himself be hauled up to his feet. Other than the muck clinging to his clothing, he looked none the worse for wear, and he swiped his sword back up off the ground, sheathing it at his side, before managing a grim smile at Lucien. “Well, it’s you, thank the Cauldron.”

Don’t thank it for me, Lucien thought sourly, but bit back the retort, instead asking, “What are you doing here? Where’s Hart?” Hadn’t they both been assigned to escort duty? His heart rate spiked as he considered that — why Elain and Briar weren’t here with him.

“Hart returned to the palace, to speak with Lord Tamlin. I’m standing guard.” Bron jerked his head towards the mountains. “They’re up in the forest, meeting with the humans.”

Lucien didn’t have to ask who they were. “Then why in all the hells are you down here?” he exclaimed, trying and failing to keep the anger out of his tone.

Bron’s shoulders slumped. “They wouldn’t let me join them. No High Fae permitted. I could only escort them as far as this spot, then they insisted that I stay behind. I wasn’t even to know which way they traveled.” He leaned in. “These humans are paranoid. I don’t trust them.”

“Obviously it’s mutual,” Lucien snapped, torn between fury that Briar and Elain had gone off unattended, and terror that they could be anywhere in that forest, and he would never find them. “They don’t permit High Fae, but Elain was allowed to go up there?”

“It was hoped the humans would see her as one of them,” Bron explained.

Lucien’s fists clenched, the left one aching inside its bandages, but he ignored it. The stress of it all, the utter frustration, was building up inside him along with his power, seething to be let out. “Hoped?”

“It wasn’t my idea, you understand. We tried to tell them it was dangerous.” Bron shrugged a little helplessly. “But we didn’t rightly think we could forbid it. We weren’t going to haul them through the city streets back to the palace.”

“No, of course you’re quite right,” Lucien conceded. He might hate the idea of two defenseless females off in the wilderness, but Briar and Elain were full-grown adults, capable of making their own decisions. “They must have thought it was worth the risk.”

One of the downed males groaned softly, and Lucien whirled to face him, rapidly taking in his bloodied nose and lip, the slight webbing around his fingers, the frilled ears — part water wraith, if he had to guess. “And what’s your connection to all this?” he asked sharply.

The male only shook his head, so Lucien turned his gaze to the second male, who had the same features, but more pronounced — perhaps they were a father and son, or two brothers? “Speak,” Lucien commanded, the ground rumbling under him. “What was your intention?”

“N-nothing, my lord,” the second male stammered, raising his hands in surrender. “We meant no harm.”

“No harm?” Bron thundered, hand on his sword. “You attacked me.”

“Forgive us, lord, we just, we were hungry,” the first male pleaded. “We weren’t going to hurt no one, really, just get a bit of coin for our supper.”

“So it’s theft, then?” Lucien asked, folding his arms. He wondered how many of Fulvia’s customers paid with stolen coin. “Are there any more of you about? More accomplices?”

The two males exchanged a nervous look, which was all the confirmation Lucien needed. So I was being followed. He glanced about the clearing, looking for any other would-be thieves, then settled for casting a ward around them, so he wouldn’t be ambushed while his back was turned. “What are your names?”

“I’m called Tiberius, lord. This is Gracchus,” the first male said, motioning towards his companion, who was shaking his head, as though in warning.

“Well, Tiberius, being hungry isn’t a crime. But attacking folk on the road certainly is,” Lucien said grimly. “Bron will escort you two to the palace. Let the High Lord and Lady decide what to do with you.”

Tiberius was nodding eagerly, thanking Lucien many times, apparently having expected to be blasted on the spot. But Gracchus was scowling. “They don’t care about the likes of us. We’re not even permitted to show them our faces.”

Lucien ran a hand over his own face. “That is a grave injustice indeed. You should be treated just like any other subject. But they do care, that I can tell you.” He watched them carefully for the brothers’ reactions, looking for any hint that they were in league with the conspirators, that he wasn’t sending potential assassins straight to the palace. “If you will give a full account of yourselves, explain your situation, I believe you’ll find that they are merciful.”

Gracchus was shaking his head, his eyes widening in fear. “They will punish us, and our families. Our poor parents, our wives and children.”

“That is not the law whatsoever,” Lucien said, shocked at this suggestion. “Innocents will not be punished. Whatever you might have done, you need not fear that others will be harmed for it.” He thought frantically, trying to figure out how they might have come by such a notion. There was no time to ask more questions, for the need to find Elain was pressing.

“Fine words, but how can we believe them, when everything we hear is the opposite?” Gracchus said bitterly.

“I am their friend and ally,” Lucien said, “and since I represent them here in this moment, here is what I am willing to offer. One of you will go to the palace, the other will return to your people, after promising that you won’t attack others. Tell your folk what I’m telling you now, that the High Lord and Lady are just rulers. That someone has been spreading lies among you.”

The two males exchanged another look, and then Tiberius stepped forward. “I will face the High Lord and Lady, answer for both of us.”

Gracchus looked pained. “I do not wish to be separated, then we may never see each other again. If we are to die, or be imprisoned, let us at least be together. Let us both go to the palace.”

“No, brother. Someone has to go home to our family tonight, work the fields in the morning,” Tiberius said plaintively. “You are the stronger and more enduring. You can protect Claudia and my younglings.”

Lucien desperately wanted to promise that of course the male could go home to his family, that they would forget all about this matter. He knew Tarquin would be quick to agree, but he wasn’t at all sure that Cresseida would allow it. If they allowed every offender to go unpunished, unjudged even, there would be no incentive for them to stop thieving. And what of the folk they were stealing from — who would protect their spouses and younglings?

So he drew himself up, and looked at Bron. “Will you take it from here?” He glanced back up towards the mountains, desperately hoping that he wouldn’t get hopelessly lost within them, then back towards Gracchus. “I give my word that your brother will be judged fairly.”

Gracchus bowed his head. “I will go back, and inform the others. And ensure that no one else is attacked on this road.”

Lucien nodded his agreement, and Gracchus scrambled away, giving his brother one last plaintive look before disappearing into the marshes. Only then did Lucien pull out his piece of parchment, writing out a message to Tarquin and the other High Lords, hastily explaining what had happened, that he was about to head into the forest, and to expect Bron and a guest back at the palace.

I swear I didn’t come out here to find trouble, he added, anticipating Eris’s objection. But I’m glad I was here, all the same.

“Well, I’m off. Wish me luck,” he said to Bron. “And you’d best get going, as well.”

Unexpectedly, Tiberius spoke up. “You’re not going… into the mountains?” When Lucien nodded, the faerie twisted his fingers together nervously. “How much do you know about the folk who live up there?”

“Not much,” Lucien admitted. “Why?”

“Why? They shoot intruders on sight, that’s why. It’s not ash wood they’ve got, but they coat it in some kind of poison, makes your skin burn and itch like anything,” Tiberius said, shuddering, making Lucien wonder whether he was speaking from personal experience.

“What else can you tell us? How do I find them?” Lucien asked gently. When the male hesitated, he added, “This is the High Lord’s official business. If you were to be aid us, it would only help your case.”

Tiberius nodded, though he still looked nervous. “Always keep to the leftward path, and look for the melonfruit trees to guide your way. The humanfolk don’t eat them, thinking they’re cursed or some such silly notion, don’t even use the wood or leaves or anything, so they’re the tallest and healthiest wherever the folk are. And there’s regular patrols, so watch the footprints, keep to the tops of the trees if you can.”

Lucien thought this all sounded very unfriendly, but it was better to go in with his eyes open. “That’s very helpful.”

Tiberius wasn’t finished. “And by no means should you enter their village, unless you’re invited. There’s some strange magic protecting it, some sort of enchantment.”

Lucien’s eye clicked. He’d once thought that was the source of his ability to see spells — how silly and naive he had been. “Thank you,” he said to Tiberius. “Truly.”

“No. Do not thank me,” the male said, reaching out to grip Lucien’s shoulder. “There’s something more that I haven’t told you. That I can’t tell you, as much as I wish to.” His hand shook, and Bron steadied him, while Lucien subtly increased the shielding around them, frowning at the way that Tiberius trembled, his lips repeatedly parting and closing. “Can’t — say any more. The bargain forbids it.”

“You’re one of them, aren’t you,” Lucien murmured. Of course, he should have known better than to trust in these strangers. The male had been far too eager to go to the palace. “What about Gracchus?”

“Not Gracchus. He — no, I can’t talk about it.” Tiberius closed his eyes, his skin going a worrying gray, like his lifeblood was being drained by the magic, and Lucien reached out to steady him before he toppled. “We all — swore an oath. Can’t tell outsiders.”

Then Fulvia is truly our only hope of getting real information. The thought was far from comforting.

Lucien and Bron exchanged a significant look, but neither said anything. No words needed to be spoken between them. They both knew how serious this was, how precarious the situation.

“Don't try to say more. It’s killing you,” Lucien fretted.

“Better now than — later,” Tiberius gasped, clutching at his chest. “At least I won’t die a traitor. At least I’ll spare — her. And my children. Won’t have to — see me like this —“

Lucien gripped his arm, as though he could physically shake the magic loose, free Tiberius from the cursed effects of it. “There must be some way we can undo this,“ he cried. “I’m not going to stand here and watch you die.” Then the thought struck him, like a bolt of lightning. “Bron?”

Bron stepped up to him. “Here, my lord.”

Lucien didn’t quibble with the honorific, much as he hated it. There wasn’t time. “Listen carefully. This is important. I’m going to winnow you both to the palace. I need you to take him to Helion.”

“The High Lord of Day? But why —“

“Because he’s the only one who can cleave bargains,” Lucien said frantically. “He got Vassa out of her curse with Koschei, I don’t know how, but we need him to do this, or this male will die, and his secrets will die with him.”

“Of course,” Bron said, his forehead creasing, “but why me? Surely you —“

“Not me, I’m the last one he’ll listen to. But it doesn’t matter,” Lucien said, grabbing for Tiberius with his injured hand, carefully, and holding on to Bron with the other. “I’m needed here anyway. This is your mission, Bron, can you do it?”

The sentry nodded firmly, and Lucien’s magic swirled around them all, winnowing them to the palace entrance, where several of the palace sentries came running.

“Get them to Helion,” Lucien barked at them, then patted Tiberius’s shoulder. “You are to hold on, do you understand?” Tiberius weakly shook his head, swaying in Lucien’s grip. “Think of your wife, your children. Your brother. You have people who love you and need you, and you are not to leave them. Do you hear me?”

The faerie stared at him, then nodded the barest fraction, and then he was being carried away by the sentries, Bron rapidly filling them in as they went.

Lucien watched them go, his heart both heavy and strangely light, and then he was winnowing again, back to the marshes and the path and the mountains, and Briar and the humans, and Elain.

I just hope this time I’m not too late.

Chapter Text

Lucien ducked, yet again, twisting to avoid getting his tunic caught in the thorny vines tangled in the undergrowth of the mountain forest, and cursed when his sandaled foot landed in the muck. The trail was muddy after last night’s rain, and boot-prints headed off in several directions. He should have grabbed his own boots at the palace, but he’d been too frantic with worry, too full of what-ifs to think through it clearly.

He laughed, hearing both Eris and Helion in his mind, scolding him soundly. This was just like him, always rushing off impulsively. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d plunged into a forest to get to Elain, though at least time he didn’t have Feyre petulantly pouting and ignoring him.

Gods, was that stupid. Even all these years later, he cringed at the naïveté, the sheer foolishness of how he’d acted. Feyre had made it abundantly clear he wasn’t wanted, that she’d intended to abandon him to his fate with the rest of the Spring Court that she seemed bent on destroying. He’d barely trusted her not to stab him between the shoulder blades, not after she’d used him to rouse Tamlin’s jealousy, spread rumors that he’d forsaken his own Cauldron-granted mate for his best friend’s true love and savior. He should have known then that his efforts would amount to nothing but ruin.

And why should this time be any different?

Stop that, focus, he scolded himself sharply. You can’t afford to let your guard down, or dwell on old memories. This forest will swallow you alive, if you’re not mindful.

Lucien normally loved forests, more than any other kind of landscape. He had spent his youth in Autumn’s woods, kicking up the crackling carpet of fallen leaves, wading in sparkling streams where he could catch fish, and scamper up the old stately trees, and breathe in the crisp cool air. The woods had sheltered him as he’d fled from his family, witnessed his descent into exile, and nourished and protected him when he’d returned, guiding Feyre through them. If he hadn’t been so hell-bent on reaching Elain, he might have been sorry to leave them again.

The forests of Spring were far younger, brimming with light greens and yellows rather than rubies and russets, but he’d found them charming in their own way — invigorating to the senses, livelier and wilder, yet somehow more gentle. He’d patrolled those forests for many good years, happy years before the curse had descended upon them, sullying those woods with blood and beasts. Tamlin had purged the lands of those monsters now, and the  Spring woods had felt fresh and happy again, brimming with color and possibility. 

But this forest felt heavy, dark and secretive, even as it showed off its garish bounty — lush fruits that dangled unplucked from the trees, spiky flowers sharp and beautiful as daggers, long draping palm leaves like umbrellas. Vines lurched down to snag and trip him, the path turning slippery and treacherous. Tree roots splayed out haphazardly, clawing at the earth, like they were fearful of being washed away or robbed of their sunlight and dew by their neighbors. Even the treetops were enveloped in mist, a pall of gloom hanging over the mountain, a rainstorm gathering its fury before it struck.

He took step after step, staying to the left at every turn like he’d been instructed, and picked up his pace. The path grew steeper, meandering ever upwards, and the forest passed by in a blur of birdsong and green, with flowers providing pops of color. Some of them shimmered and hummed, their leaves slightly bent or brushed against, and he wondered if Elain had walked along this way, touching her fingertips to the plants, admiring and exploring, even collecting. This place would be a paradise to a gardener.

Did Elain like this riotous wildness, he wondered, or did she find it too uncontrolled and unsettling? Would she prefer her predictable, well-maintained, comfortable garden?

A bird let out a high pitched whistle in the distance, and many more answered it, sharp calls emanating from many points in the forest. Lucien froze in his tracks, realizing it was not a bird at all, but patrolling humans, signaling each other. Did the calls mean they’d spotted him? Lucien wasn’t about to linger to find out.

He winnowed into one of the taller trees, ignoring the scrapes to his elbows and knees as he slammed into the rough bark, hoping he hadn’t given himself splinters. He stayed there for long moments as the bird calls faded out into the low hum of the forest, gripping onto the trunk with sweaty fingers until his breathing calmed and he could get his bearings. He could barely make out the forest floor at all, the dark shapes rustling in the understory, but stayed quiet until all had gone still again, the mist settling down around him like a curtain. It was better cover than the palm leaves had been, and he made his way from treetop to treetop, trying to keep his eye on the path, scanning above the canopy for signs of a settlement.

There. At first glance, the forest looked uniform, impenetrable, but the air shimmered with faint gold strands at the edges of Lucien’s vision, rippling with magic. He focused, his metal eye clicking with effort, and the scene resolved into a circular clearing, dotted with structures he guessed were houses, the mists thinning out into curling spirals of smoke in the air — cooking fires, most likely.

His heart beat strangely, exhilaration at having found the village at last warring with his anxiety for Elain, and the odd foreboding dread he’d felt in the marshes. The humans were well hidden here, almost too well. Whose magic was this that obscured them? Not Tarquin’s or Cresseida’s — they hadn’t known of this settlement. It didn’t feel like their magic, anyway. But whose, then? Lucien struggled to understand it.

Then he heard voices from far below him, and he went still and silent, knowing he must not be discovered. He inched down the tree he was perched in, avoiding the sticky sap that coated its surface, grimacing when he jostled the branches, until he was far down enough to hear their words plainly, but hopefully still safely hidden in the foliage.

“—but it’s not fair,” one of the voices was saying. It was thin and high and clear, even childish. “Everyone else has gotten to see one, and I haven’t.”

“Then you’re lucky,” another voice retorted, a bit huskier, but still youthful, like that of a boy on the cusp of maturity. “They’re wicked, Lyra. You wouldn’t want to see one.”

“They’re not all wicked, though, are they, Castor?” the first voice asked plaintively.

“Yes. They’re all wicked,” a third voice scolded. “And you’re wicked too, for leaving the village. Don’t you know that Mama’s worried?”

Lucien risked lowering himself a bit more so that he could squint down at the voices’s owners, and saw that indeed they were children. He knew they had to be human, but their straggly blond hair and pale skin tinged red with sunburn confirmed it. They were thin but not emaciated, and were dressed in shapeless tunics of what looked like coarse woven fabric, their feet bare, so he figured they couldn’t be far from the village. Perhaps he could even sneak behind, follow them when they went home to it?

But if you’re not invited in, you’ll trigger the magic. The human village was indeed protected, as Tiberius had warned him, and Lucien didn’t want to know what sort of nasty surprise he would get if he tried to sneak or force his way in. He could probably cleave the spells, if it came to that, but would he be unraveling all the humans’ protection? And triggering their ire against fae in the process? That was the last thing he wanted, to put Elain in more danger.

The oldest child, who couldn’t be more than twelve or eleven, was tugging at the arm of a small wriggling girl who was clinging to a tree, refusing to budge from it. The other boy, who looked to be the middle one in age, was continuing to plead with her, telling her how naughty she was and how their mother would surely send her to bed without supper.

“I don’t care, it’s yucky stew anyway. Why do we always have to eat it?” the little girl was complaining, kicking at her brothers when they tried to grab for her. “Why can’t we ever have fruit from the forest?”

The older boy stood back, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “And get sick and die after, like Pollux? You’ll break Mama’s heart.” He tugged on her again halfheartedly. “You know everything in the forest is dangerous.”

“What are we going to do, Altair?” the younger brother complained, when Lyra again wouldn’t budge. “I don’t want to miss supper because dumb Lyra won’t listen.” He glowered angrily at his sister. “If Papa were here, he’d give you a spanking.”

“Don’t you say that. Papa loves me,” Lyra cried tearfully, aiming a kick at his shins.

“Leave it, Castor. She’s too little to understand,” Altair said wearily.

“No, she’s not. I’m only two years older, remember?” Castor kicked at a rock in frustration. “I want to go home. Let her stay here, learn her lesson.”

“You know we can’t leave her out here all alone,” the older brother exclaimed, shocked. “What if she’s killed, or taken?”

Lucien slid back out of sight, tuning out the boys’ argument, not wanting to risk that one of them would happen to look up and spot him. He suspected that the village’s entrance was just behind them, judging by the weave of the magic, and there was no way to slip past them unless he was glamoured. If Cresseida were here, perhaps she could manage it — she could have made him practically invisible, especially to their weak human senses.

“—then forget it, I’m going,” Castor announced. “And don’t ask for my help with her ever again.”

“Get back here! I can’t carry her without you,” Altair shouted, and Lucien risked a peek beyond the tree trunk, seeing that Castor had stomped off through a tree-hollow, the golden strands parting and then re-weaving around him. Clever, it’s almost invisible. If he hadn’t been able to see the strands of the magic converging, Lucien would have definitely walked right past it.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Altair was scolding the little girl, who had plopped herself down and was busily arranging reedy vines into a makeshift wreath or basket, and placing flowers into the middle of it, pretending to ignore her brothers’ argument. “Mother’s already got grief from the elders, since Papa went missing, and you’re going to get us in even more trouble.”

Lyra glared up at him, her little chin wobbling, as though she was liable to burst into tears at any moment. “When I catch my faerie, I’ll make it find Papa. Then we can all move away, and be happy.”

The older boy’s fists clenched. “How many times do we have to tell you, you can’t make a faerie do your bidding?”

“Sure I can,” Lyra declared. “Just like in the stories. You trap them, and they answer your questions, in exchange for being set free.”

“That kind of thinking is what led Pa astray. He thought he could make deals with the fae, and now look what’s happened. He’s gone, and there’s no one to help Mama,” Altair said angrily. “Now come on, before anything else bad happens, and no more silly talk of faeries.” He reached down to pick her up, hoisting her awkwardly in his arms, and she flailed in his grip, starting to wail loudly.

“Stop that!” he hissed, his face going red as he struggled to keep his hold on her, and he looked around frantically before shaking her, begging, “Lyra, you’ve got to stop, you’ll attract predators — Ow!” he howled, as her foot slammed forcefully into his stomach. He dropped her abruptly, but Lyra kept shrieking as she sprawled out on the ground, her shoulders heaving with sobs.

Altair backed up, wringing his hands together. “Drat it all, Lyra, I’m going to get Father Mandray, and you’re not at all going to like what happens.” And he took a stumbling step backwards, towards the tree-hollow, surveying the area nervously, then turned and fled, disappearing into the doorway in a haze of golden magic.

Lyra huffed softly, swiping haphazardly at her cheeks, then straightened herself determinedly and got back to what she’d been doing, re-arranging the vines and flowers, and then setting her basket carefully on the ground. Lucien watched as she reached for more vines and several sturdy sticks, laying out what he recognized as a hunter’s snare, designed to lash around an animal’s limbs as it darted by.

Like how Feyre trapped the Suriel, he thought, his lips curling up into a faint smile as the irony of it all forcefully struck him. Had the Suriel watched her arranging her snare, calculated how soon it would get close enough to trigger it without making the timing seem too convenient?

He slid the rest of the way down the tree, trying to avoid too much rustling or jostling the branches, and landed silently on the forest floor, watching carefully as the little girl finished her contraption, then stood up and brushed her hands together, then giggled a little as she dashed off to hide behind a tree trunk.

Lucien looked down at the basket of flowers, wondering what a faerie was supposed to want with them, especially in a forest where they grew wild everywhere. But what he really wanted was a human to bring him into the village, so he’d take whatever this girl chose to offer.

He poked his head out from the trees, then tiptoed out to where Lyra could see him, then pretended to glance all about the forest as though he was trying hard not to be spotted.

A delighted, high pitched little gasp came from Lyra’s hiding place, but he ignored it, pretending to circle the basket with interest, then poked at it gingerly with a finger.

Then he sighed, resigned to what he was about to do, knowing he’d be teased mercilessly for it, and deliberately reached for a bright red flower, yelping in feigned surprise as a stick snapped and released the vine, which curled around his wrist with surprising tightness, yanking him forward hard enough that he landed on his knees.

“Hey!” he cried, making a show of tugging at it ineffectually with his bandaged hand, then looked up to see the grinning imp of a girl standing over him, looking quite pleased with herself. “Did you do this, wicked human?” He brandished his hand towards her, trying to look angry and not burst out laughing. “Release me.”

“I’m not wicked, you are,” Lyra said primly, “and now I’ve caught you, and you have to answer all of my questions.”

“Is that how it works,” Lucien grumbled.

“Well, of course, silly. Don’t you know your own stories?” Lyra poked a finger at the scars on his face, and his eye clicked at it. “Were you attacked by a monster?”

“Yes,” he said, which was true, after all. Amarantha had been a monster, all the more so because she didn’t look it. “But the monster is dead now,” he added, when he saw her forehead scrunch with worry. “All the worst monsters are gone from Prythian.”

Lyra nodded. “Mama says the forest is dangerous. That I mustn’t be out here all on my own. Or even with my brothers.”

“Your mother is probably right to worry,” Lucien said. “I’ve heard there’s going to be some trouble. It’s better if you aren’t out here alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Lyra said, “now that you’re here. You’re meant to help me, aren’t you, faerie?”

Again, Lucien had to suppress his smile. “I suppose I must, if you wish it. I’m assuming you didn’t capture me just to ask about my scars.”

The little girl’s lower lip quivered. “I need you to help me find my papa.”

Lucien’s heart clenched. “He is missing?”

She nodded. “For weeks and weeks.” Her large blue eyes started to fill with tears. “Altair says he’s dead, but I know he isn’t.” She looked hopefully at Lucien. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“Well,” Lucien said, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat, “well, not yet. But I’m very good at finding people who’ve gone missing.”

Lyra’s chin trembled, but she straightened herself and nodded.

“Now, I do believe I’m entitled to ask for a little something, in the way of payment. If you’ll allow me?” He let loose a tiny pulse of his magic, conjuring the wrapped packet of fried fish that Fulvia had given him, and opening up the paper to show her. “I do believe it’s time for my dinner, but I don’t have a fire to cook with.” He grinned at his new little friend. “I’m even willing to share it.”

Lyra’s eyes widened in delight, and she leaned closer, sticking her little nose out to sniff at it. “We haven’t had anything but stew in ages. I hate it!”

“I’ll even trade dinners with you outright,” Lucien said, “if you give me a place to sleep out of the rain.” In fact, he planned to be gone from the village long before the girl’s bedtime, but he needed to make sure she planned to bring him into it to begin with.

Lyra looked surprised at the suggestion. “Well, of course you’ll sleep out of the rain. I have a secret hiding place all ready.”

“You’ve really thought of everything.” He bowed his head to her ceremoniously. “May I know the name of my captor?”

Lyra chewed on her lip, considering the matter solemnly, finally pronouncing, “You’re not supposed to give your name to a faerie.”

“So you’ve been taught some sense of precaution. That is good,” he said. He didn’t want her thinking she could trust strangers so absolutely, even though it was benefiting him at the moment. “But if you aren’t going to tell me your name, I’ll just have to call you something.” He thought for a moment. “I know — how about Butterfly Cuddle-Muffin?”

The little girl stared at him, like she didn't know whether to laugh or scowl, so he said, “Rosemary Pudding? Rainbow Moonflower?”

Lyra swatted at him, starting to laugh. “Those sound ridiculous!”

“I’ll tell you my name first, if that’s better. It’s Lucien.”

“Lucien,” she repeated. “Okay, fine. I’m Lyra.”

“Well, Lyra, it’s nice to meet you. Even if you did trap me in very rude fashion,” Lucien said, waving his hand in the air, indicating the vine threaded around his wrist. “What are you going to do with me now?”

“First we have to go home, or Mama will worry,” Lyra said.  She tugged on the vine, indicating that he ought to stand, and Lucien did so, careful not to tug on his end and make her fall over.

“Is your mama going to be angry? Will the other folk mind that there’s fae in the village?” He hesitated as she began to walk towards the tree-hollow. “They’re not going to attack us, as soon as we step foot in there?”

Lyra shook her head. “All the guards are with the visitors. They won’t see us.”

Lucien tried to sound curious, not panicked, but the thought of Elain surrounded by guards hit far too close to home. “That sounds serious.”

“Not very. They’re just other humans,” Lyra said. “One of them looks like a faerie, but isn’t.”

“Oh?” He whooshed out a relieved breath. So the humans have accepted her presence, see her as one of them. “Maybe you’ll introduce me.”

The thought of that awkwardness, of having to interact directly with Elain, threatened to undo all his composure. Thank the Cauldron he felt nothing, that the bond was nothing but an aching emptiness inside him. He wouldn’t have to feel her revulsion, her need to flee from him. He would simply winnow her back to the palace and be done with it.

His new host took strides forward towards the tree-hollow, and he followed, bracing himself as the wards prickled around him. His own magic sizzled under his skin, reacting against the spells threaded around the human encampment that didn’t want to admit him. He began to panic, thinking he might have to cleave through them, after all, or risk getting ripped apart by the magic.

But then Lyra gave a frustrated huff, and stalked back to him, grabbing three of fingers in her hot little hand. “Come on, Lucien, I’m getting hungry,” she ordered, tugging him forward, and the magic pulsed around them both, granting him entry.

Chapter Text

“A secret passage? How clever,” Lucien said, carefully stepping along behind Lyra, blinking in surprise when she expertly scrambled over a large rock blocking her way, in bare feet, no less. He was tempted to rip his own mud-covered shoes off, as they were more of a hindrance, making him nearly slip where Lyra was sure-footed. “And you say you haven’t done this before?”

The little girl turned around, giving him an impish grin, before grabbing a fistful of branches and leaves and swinging, then giggling when she let go and they whipped backwards, nearly whacking Lucien in the face. He caught them, grinning back at her. “That might work on your brothers, but fae have good reflexes.”

Lyra pouted a little, but quickly brightened again. “I still caught you, didn’t I.”

Lucien shrugged, trying to look suitably chagrined and probably failing. “Maybe I just have a weakness for flowers.”

The girl’s little hand tightened around his fingers, tugging him forward again. “Papa says faeries love beautiful things.” And Lucien could find nothing to dispute in that statement.

He scanned ahead on the trail, his gaze flicking upwards, to the wards arcing over the treetops, and then back to Lyra, who was hopping over a downed log, then beckoning impatiently for him to follow. Despite the girl’s prideful assertions, it seemed unlikely that she and her young brothers had created all this themselves. Who else had been sneaking around this village?

They turned left, skirting the edge of the settlement and approaching a rickety, run-down wooden structure, and he ducked as she ushered him inside. It was uncomfortably warm, and very damp, so that his sweaty tunic and trousers felt plastered to his skin.

“This is Papa’s old workshop,” Lyra announced, answering his unspoken question. “We use it as our clubhouse, me and Castor and Altair when he’s not being fussy, when we don't want the grownups to find us.” She pointed imperiously to a corner. “Stay there til I’m ready.”

She scampered around, gathering up simple toys of wood and cloth that had been strewn about the cabin, and rustling here and there with the gleeful industrious fervor only the young and happy could muster. Lucien obediently settled in on the floor in the meantime where she had indicated, ignoring the places where the floorboards had buckled and rotted, patches of new green shoots poking through. The cottage looked rather worse for wear, with loose boards affixed over gaping holes in the walls in several places, but Lyra treated it as her palace. He tried to see it through her eyes — it was hers, in a world where she had very little, and that was better than anything.

Lucien peered through the wooden slats, which were angled such to form a makeshift window, and tried to map out what he could see of the village. There was a loose semi-circle of what looked like houses, and a central clearing with larger structures that he guessed was used for communal gatherings. Sections of the green were plowed flat and worked into fields, with straggly crops in various states of ripeness — ingredients, he supposed, for the stews Lyra so hated, maybe even for the rough fabric she was wearing. Perhaps there was a sort of rustic wild charm about this place, if one squinted, but he imagined daily life would be grueling and repetitive, especially during rainier seasons.

Then he glanced around one last time, to be sure no humans’ eyes would see him, and that Lyra was suitably busy. Then he cast out cautiously with his magic.

Nothing.

Just as I suspected.

It made perfect sense. If the humanfolk were paranoid about faeries hurting them or interfering in their affairs, why wouldn’t they want to nullify magic within their borders? It was the only way to keep themselves truly hidden, to put themselves on more even footing with much more powerful neighbors. But who would they have trusted enough to cast such complete wards, all around the village?

Where have I felt magic like this before?

It was a mystery he couldn't solve, and a complication he would have to work around. He wouldn’t be able to use the spelled parchment, wouldn’t be able to update his friends back at the palace. And he couldn’t access pocket realms, or winnow, unless he cleaved the wards, which he would only do in a dire emergency.

Lucien ran his hands through his hair, which had come all undone from his exertions while slogging through the forest, and tried to undo the tangles as best as he could with one hand still bandaged. He needed a hot bath, and a cold drink, and a long vacation from all his troubles and heartaches, and it didn’t look like any of those were forthcoming. So he scanned the area for people, hoping to catch a glimpse of Elain or Briar, but found that the area looked mostly deserted. Perhaps the people were all in that larger structure, where the smoke of a large cooking fire was escaping out through a hole in the thatched roof. Perhaps he ought to go investigate.

He edged away from the window, mulling over his options. The idea of just staying put, depending on a young child’s whims, was not very appealing. But he couldn’t just stroll out into the village, or the humans would take him for an intruder, and shoot him on sight, or fly into a panic that could harm innocents.

On the other hand, they were apparently tolerating Elain, who at least looked faerie. Perhaps it was lesser faeries they feared? It was a common enough prejudice among humans that he’d encountered — they were much more skittish when faeries looked different, since their senses couldn’t perceive magic. It was perverse, since they had much more to fear from High Fae, but right now, it benefited him.

Then Lyra was beckoning to him. “Here. This is your bed.”

Lucien eyed the bundles of loose straw and tree leaves, and the raggedy scrap of cloth for a blanket, and bit his lip to keep from chuckling. If only old Beron could see him now, he’d be apoplectic with fury that any Vanserra would be housed in such a manner, no better than a farmyard creature. But Lucien knew that even the most luxurious accommodations could feel like a torment, a prison, no matter how opulent the dwelling or how sumptuous the fabric.

“Thank you,” he said, inclining his head ceremoniously to Lyra. “This will do just fine.” He stood up and strode to her, then knelt so that they were at eye level. “Now you’d better go, or you’ll miss your dinner.”

Lyra nodded, but suddenly looked a bit nervous. “How do I know you won’t run away?” How do I know you won’t disappear, like my father did, she might well have put it.

“A reasonable question,” Lucien said, considering how he might convince her. There was nowhere in Prythian or any other realm where he needed to be, more than here, but he didn’t expect her to understand the whole convoluted explanation. “I could swear an oath on the Cauldron.”

Lyra scrunched her little sunburnt nose. “What’s a cauldron?”

“A cauldron is a cooking pot for an open fire. This Cauldron is where the world was made,” Lucien explained.

“The world was cooked? Over a fire, like stew?” The little girl snickered. “Faeries think the craziest things!” 

Lucien laughed along with her. “I know it sounds crazy. If I hadn’t seen the thing myself, witnessed its power, I wouldn’t believe it either.” He thought of that awful night at Hybern, but quickly dismissed those memories, of Elain shoved beneath its waters. “But the Cauldron is the most powerful thing there is in this world. If I swear an oath on it, I would have to keep it.”

Lyra considered this, then nodded. “Okay then, do it.”

“Okay.” He cleared his throat. “I, Lucien, swear on the Cauldron that I won’t sneak away.”

“And you’ll help me find my papa,” Lyra prompted.

“And I further vow to help investigate your papa’s disappearance, to the best of my ability,” Lucien went on, careful to avoid actually promising too much. If her father was dead, or couldn’t be found for some reason, he didn't want to be stuck in the village indefinitely.

“Good,” Lyra declared. “Now what happens? Is there going to be magic?”

“That’s it,” Lucien assured her. He was grateful to no longer be affiliated with the Night Court, so that he could avoid annoying tattoos on his skin. In any case, he had deliberately not made a bargain, refusing to burden a young child with such powerful magic. “I believe the human custom is to seal an agreement with a handshake?”

The little girl nodded, then stuck out her hand. Lucien took it, and she shook vigorously, then impulsively threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. Lucien froze for a moment, not having expected it, but then patted her back carefully.

“Lyra? Lyra!” a voice shouted, and Lucien looked past her towards the doorway, where a young boy was rushing forward, barreling toward them. “Get away from her, you wretched faerie!”

Lyra whirled around, then yelped when the boy grabbed her up, nearly toppling both of them in the process. “Put me down, Castor!”

The boy did so, grunting with effort. It was the middle brother, only a few years older than Lyra herself, and nearly as skinny and sunburnt as his sister. “Do you have any idea how scared we’ve all been?” he cried, yanking her back towards the doorway. “The whole village thinks you’re missing!”

Lyra huffed, “I am not missing. I told you I was going to catch a faerie, and look!” She flung out an arm towards Lucien. “I did it!”

Castor shoved Lyra behind him, glaring at Lucien. “You wicked creature.” He stomped forward, and Lucien drew back, not that he had much room to maneuver, since the boy was blocking the cabin’s only exit. “Did you hurt my sister?”

Lyra was tugging on her brother ineffectually. “Stop it, Castor!”

Lucien raised his hands in surrender, fumbling for words. “Easy, friend, let’s talk it over —“

But the furious boy was already lunging for him, knocking him backwards with a hard shove. Then Castor was on top of him, raining down his fists on Lucien’s chest, landing a few blows on his jaw and cheeks. Distantly, he could hear that Lyra was shouting, that there was a commotion going on behind them, but he stayed down, keeping his own hands carefully pressed to the ground, and let the boy vent his anger.

“Castor! Castor, please,” another voice spoke from above them. Hands tugged at his shoulders, but Castor shrugged them off, too riled up to listen. He raised his fist, like he would slam it down on Lucien again, and then a pair of hands caught it, gently restraining him from striking. “Castor, your sister is here, and she’s all right. That’s what you need to focus on now. Please, sweetheart, listen.”

Lucien breathed, looking up at the faces surrounding him. There was Lyra, tears on her cheeks, and Castor’s face flushed bright red with exertion. And next to him, talking in a soothing, lilting tone —

Oh gods, not her.

Lucien felt like the ground had turned sideways, like he would lose his grip and slip down into some bottomless pit of shame and embarrassment. His hands dug into the earth, as though he could keep the world steady that way. His jaw ached with dull throbbing pain, his chest straining against the weight of the child still sprawled on top of him, but that all faded out into the faintest echo of sensation as Elain’s lovely voice filled his ears. She was holding tight to Castor’s hand, urging him to calm down, take breaths, and he was actually listening, trying to obey.

“Your sister is here. No harm has come to her,” Elain said soothingly, stroking a strand of the boy’s wild blond hair away from his eyes, as though helping to clear his vision. “She is well, Castor. She’s in no danger.”

“But he’s a faerie,” Castor exclaimed.

Lyra was standing in front of him, hands on her hips, like a governess administering a scolding to her charges. “He’s my faerie, I caught him,” she proclaimed.

“And you brought him here? How stupid are you?” Castor shot back.

Lyra made an indignant scoffing noise. “He’s going to help me find Papa. So who’s stupid now?”

The boy might have snapped back, but Elain laid a calming hand on his shoulder, her hair shimmering in the low light as she turned more fully towards him. “That was unkind, Castor. You wouldn’t want to hurt Lyra’s feelings, after you were just so worried about finding her.”

The boy’s face crumpled, the gentle reproach finding its mark, and Elain went on reassuringly, “Lucien wouldn’t do anything to hurt your sister. You can trust him.”

Lucien tensed — had he ever heard her say his name before?

Castor was looking at her, swiping tears from his cheeks. “Really?”

“Really.” Elain’s arm around him was so tender, so motherly, that Lucien couldn’t bear to look at them. He hadn’t heard that she had any of her own children, but was she like this with Feyre’s boy, soothing his hurts, guiding his behavior?

And did she mean it — that she trusted him? Surely she was just saying so for the boy’s benefit. They hadn’t exchanged so much as a word since that very last Solstice, a full decade ago, when she’d put aside his gift with a mumbled acknowledgement. It barely counted as a real conversation, those few paltry words, and they hadn’t really spoken for years before that. There had certainly never been a chance to have trust between them.

She said you can trust him, he thought sourly. She'd extended him the compliment that he wouldn’t hurt children. The implication was almost insulting.

He swallowed down all the bitter resentment and anguish that such recollections wrenched from him, and pushed himself up onto his elbows, certain he was covered in grass-stains and dirt, and deciding that he didn’t care. She had reviled him when he dressed in pristine suits of the finest fabric, so what did it matter now if he was disheveled?

Castor and Lyra were talking, and Elain was answering, but their words faded out into the vaguest impressions as Lucien struggled to rein in his reactions, maintain some shred of composure. Of course he’d known she would be here in the village, wasn’t that why he’d come in the first place? Why was being in the same room overwhelming? Why couldn’t he see her as just any female, as the complete stranger that she always had been?

That was the worst part of all — that he felt like he ought to know her. That he ought to feel something, deep down inside him. And if he did feel things, if her lovely features stirred longings within him, he had to extinguish that impulse immediately. He couldn’t afford to feel things for Elain, couldn’t allow himself one single moment to fall back into destructive old habits. She was utterly wrong for him, and off limits, and if the bond’s imprint echoed hollow in his chest, aching worse than any punch to the jaw, he had to resolutely ignore it.

“—should go find your mother,” Elain was saying, her soft brown eyes focused on Lyra. “Everyone has been very worried, since you went missing. They’ll be very eager to welcome you back.” She took both children’s hands, then brought them together, and both siblings hesitated before clasping hands with each other. “There, that’s better. You’re family, you ought to support each other.”

Was that how it was, with Elain and her sisters? Lucien hated the twinge of jealousy that rose up in him.

Castor tugged Lyra towards the door. “Let’s go,” he said gruffly, but Lucien could see that the boy was rattled. He looked guiltily in Lucien’s direction, then just as quickly looked away, focusing on Elain’s encouraging smile instead.

Lyra stuck out her tongue at her brother, but then obeyed, skipping along beside him, babbling excitedly about Lucien swearing an oath on the big pot that cooked the whole world. Castor’s incredulous reply was lost to the evening air as the two younglings left the cottage, the joyful cries of relief greeting them quickly drowning out anything else they might have said to each other.

Lucien sat up a little more, wincing when he pressed down a little too forcefully on his bandaged hand, and he drew up short when he saw that Elain was still beside him. She was wearing a simple human-style sundress, topped by a food-splattered apron she must have been borrowing, and he thought she had never looked lovelier. And she was looking at him forthrightly, intently, like she was trying to confirm that it was really him. “You’re here,” she said finally.

He nodded, struck speechless at being addressed so directly. She’d never spoken to him before, not without being specifically prompted. And not when she’d had any other option, such as a door that she could escape through.

But just when he thought he must have imagined it, that it was too preposterous for Elain to address him, she spoke to him a second time. “How did you get here — find your way through the forest? Wasn’t it dangerous?”

Lucien cleared his throat. He ought to be answering. That was how conversing worked, wasn’t it? One person talked, the other responded. “I’m used to forests,” he said stupidly, as though it was any kind of answer, so he tried to explain, “I had a little help, finding this place. And an invitation inside, though I think Lyra is the only one who will welcome my presence.”

Elain’s brows furrowed, giving her beautiful face a pensive expression. “Well, your arrival is unexpected. But that doesn’t mean they won’t accept you.”

She said it so confidently, so hopefully, that it made Lucien’s heart ache. That was almost never the way it worked — surely she knew that as well as he did. “These are your people, not mine,” he said quietly. “They’ll see me as an intruder. A threat.”

“Maybe at first, they’ll be suspicious,” she conceded. “But it doesn’t have to stay that way.” Her eyes flicked towards the door, then back to him. “I’m not really one of them, either.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched, his mechanical eye clicking softly. “Has anyone been inappropriate? Threatening?” He was content to hide out, lay low and not disrupt her mission, but if these folks had actually bothered her, that would be quite another matter.

“No, no. There are a few who aren’t thrilled that I’m here, but I can manage it,” Elain said resolutely. She was looking at his mechanical eye, as though puzzling out how it worked, before her gaze slipped back to his bandaged hand. “You’re hurt.”

Lucien resisted the urge to hide it behind his back. “It’s nothing.”

“No, it isn’t.” Elain’s hand began to reach toward him, and he almost panicked — if she actually touched him, he was going to lose it. She then seemed to realize what she’d almost done, and drew herself back, letting her hands drop to her lap. Of course she'd never touch you on purpose, you're a fool to even consider it. “You didn’t even defend yourself, when he attacked you.”

Lucien shrugged. He’d never been in any real danger. Even if Castor had been a full-grown man, and not a child, his human strength and stamina would still fall far short of Lucien’s. “If I’d raised a hand to him, even claiming self-defense, I would have destroyed any chance of goodwill between humans and faeries.”

Elain bit her plump bottom lip, and he quickly averted his eyes, why are you staring at her lips, you idiot. He instead surveyed the floorboards, the ramshackle walls, the gaping hole that served as a door, and wondered how much this reminded her of the hovel she’d once had to call home. The thought of her huddled in there with Leith and her sisters, shivering cold, looked down on and ignored by everyone but a few poorer neighbors — Lucien wanted to shudder at it.

“There isn’t that much goodwill to go round,” Elain admitted. “They’ve had problems with neighbors before.” Suddenly a thought seemed to occur to her. “Forta said there might be trouble, down by the marshes. I hope Bron went home by now. He insisted on waiting there, but I heard that it’s dangerous.”

Lucien grimaced. “Your guide was right to warn you. I saw Bron fighting off two attackers. Don’t worry, he’s fine,” he added quickly, when Elain gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “But there’s more going on than we realized. That’s actually why I came here to find you. You and Briar. Why I came to the village.” Gods, stop babbling, he scolded himself.

“What’s going on? Is it dangerous?” Elain asked, her eyes wide.

He glanced around to be sure there was no one nearby, then went on, “There is a plot to overthrow Tarquin.”

“Oh!” Elain exclaimed, her skin going pale. “Why, that’s horrid. He always seems so kind and welcoming, and he really cares about his people, and making changes to help them.”

He nodded, finding that as good a description of Tarquin as any. “I haven’t got all the details yet. But at least some humans may be involved in it, if my source is to be believed.”

“Not these humans, they’d want nothing to do with faeries,” Elain said. “Besides me — us, I mean.”

Us. It was a mockery, to be part of us, a teasing reminder of what never could have been, but Lucien tried to shove that aside. “I was going to recommend going back to the palace, but now I’ve got to stay and help Lyra, and — well, maybe the answers are here, anyway. This village has been hidden by magic, and not anyone’s I recognize. I find that odd. Maybe even suspicious.”

Elain scrunched her forehead, looking thoughtful. “No one mentioned any magic. But I didn’t know to ask, either.”

“Maybe don’t ask yet. Feel things out,” he suggested. “See what they’re willing to reveal. Then we’ll see.”

She nodded. “And you?”

Me? Who the hell knows, he almost answered.

But just then, Lyra burst back into the room, followed this time by both of her brothers. “I’m supposed to tell you to come out for dinner,” she announced, then jumped onto the straw bed behind Lucien, squealing as she launched herself forward, landing on his back with a thud. He grunted, automatically reaching back to brace her with his arms, then barked out a startled laugh when she dug her knee into his side. “Come on, horsie!”

“Lyra,” the older brother scolded, but Castor was giggling, and Elain along with him. Cauldron boil me.

Well, it was better than being pummeled.

“I am not a horse,” Lucien said severely, then cracked a smile. “Maybe a dragon.”

Lyra’s thin arms snaked around his neck. “That’s much better. Ooh, do you breathe fire?”

“Only when someone steals all my treasure,” Lucien said, wondering whether he could manipulate the wards enough so that he could use his magic, without unraveling them entirely. If he’d been able to study Day Court magic, maybe he would have been able to manage it? “Well, I’m not sure I should come out. I don’t want to scare anyone,” he added.

“That’s not much like a dragon then, is it?” Castor asked shyly.

“They all know you're here, anyway,” the older brother said. “Father Mandray says you’re hiding ‘cause you're up to something.”

Mandray. Had Leith ever mentioned that name? Lucien couldn’t remember.

Elain was shaking her head, tsking softly, but now she spoke up. “Well, that simply isn’t true. We are not hiding.” She stood up, briskly moving towards the door, and after another moment of hesitation, Lucien hoisted Lyra up higher on his back, then scrambled to his feet to follow.

Well, here goes everything.

Chapter Text

Lucien settled uneasily onto the bench, the bowl of stew cradled in his hands. He had approached the bonfire with trepidation, nervous to see how the villagefolk reacted, and had not been surprised at the glares and insults hissed furtively in his direction. By rights he should have been run out of the village, for he had tricked a little girl into granting him entry. That little girl had slid off his back when her mother had insisted, and the older female, Linnet, whose word they all heeded, had declared that he was their guest, and welcome to share their supper and fire.

The sharing of food with him had sealed it, given him guest rights according to the human custom, but Lucien wasn’t naïve enough to think all folk would respect it. They were a sturdy group, grown hard and bitter from their toils and troubles, weather-worn and just this side of malnourished, if their hollow-eyed expressions and the mud-slop that passed for supper had been any indication. Lucien had thought he was used to human cuisine, from battle rations to tavern fare, but this was the worst concoction he’d ever tasted. No wonder the folk were grumpy and suspicious.

But what had him on edge, more than the surly folk or the unpalatable stew, was the beautiful female perched on the bench beside him. Elain looked radiant in the firelight, the golden highlights of her hair shimmering softly, and it was hell to keep himself from staring. It felt too much like his time at the Night Court, except that now she was willing to speak to him, which he wasn’t sure made anything better. How could she act like the past hadn’t happened? She seemed utterly oblivious to his plight, which was bitter consolation.

Despite the folk’s suspicion of fae, Elain had managed to establish a friendly rapport with the villagers, and was currently carrying on an amiable chat about how they grew their produce. He’d known that she had always had gardens -- the way Feyre had told it, during her human days at the Spring Court manor, Elain had thoughtlessly chosen to grow ornamental flowers rather than vegetables, even when the family was starving. But listening to Elain now, talking soil conditions and rainfall, he had to wonder.

Why were the humans wasting their efforts growing crops from their former homelands, rather than adapting to the growing conditions of the forest? These were eminently practical, down-to-earth people, so surely there had to be a good reason. Elain must have thought so too, for she outright asked them why they could not harvest the fruits and spices that grew wild all around them.

Then Linnet solved the mystery, declaring, “They’re cursed, the faerie fruits are.” 

Several of the folk turned to glare at Lucien, as though he had personally cursed them. He could feel their indignation, their disgust, and sought to de-escalate. He carefully placed his stew down and leaned forward, trying to look interested rather than defensive. “Cursed, you say? In what manner?”

One of the rougher males sneered, “Hell if we know. Aren’t you the faerie?”

Lucien, who was used to all manner of human rudeness, and knew better than to take such bait, replied, "Indeed. That’s why I’m asking. If there’s a curse or enchantment, I’ll be able to see it. Maybe even undo it.”

“Is he truly offering?” Lyra’s mother whispered to her eldest son, who up til now had been trying to coax Lyra to eat her stew, and not stick out her tongue rudely at it. “Would he really help us?”

“There’s always a price with them, you can’t trust it,” hissed another woman to the folk sitting near her.

“If we refuse, or anger him, he could lay some new curse upon us,” fretted an older man.

Lucien sighed. This was going to be a tall order. If these people were this skittish about one  friendly faerie in their midst, what chance did they have of convincing them to send a whole delegation into the palace, to be surrounded by fae? If his presence scared them, how could they be expected to face down High Lords, or Tarquin’s sneering courtiers, who would be far less obliging?

A middle aged woman in a headscarf that barely corralled her thick curly hair spoke above the din. “I doubt there is anything you can do, even if you are as sincere as you seem. The curse is laid in the very trees,” she said angrily. “Anyone who is foolish enough to pluck faerie fruit, much less eat it, is taken ill with a vile wasting disease. It robs the body of vigor, makes the mind feeble. It seems to love the taste of our younglings best of all, for those who are fully grown tend to recover, even the old and frail. But it steals even our youngest, healthiest children.”

Lucien couldn’t help but glance at Lyra then, a pang of worry piercing his heart. As though these folk didn’t have enough to deal with, they were living with the constant threat of losing their younglings. Many in Prythian understood that fate now, especially his friends in Winter, and would be more than eager to help rectify this — whatever this was.

Could it be a curse upon the forest, upon the younglings in particular? Lucien couldn’t think of a way to do that with enchantments, but he was hardly the most learned in the magic department.

You’re going to have to swallow your pride, and ask Helion.

It was a startling thought, all the more so because Lucien’s pride had been so utterly beaten down, so shredded, that it surprised him to find he had any remaining.

Elain said thoughtfully, “Humans lived in Prythian long ago. Perhaps there are books from that time that mention such afflictions.”

Yes, Lucien thought, with growing excitement, that was a concrete step they could take right away. If Helion would open his libraries, assign a scholar or two to assist them —

A ruddy faced male, half-drunk already despite the watered-down wine, scoffed loudly. “Books from when we humans were slaves? I doubt any faerie cared enough to write that shit down.” He swung around, throwing Lucien a hostile glare — which was just fine, since it took the heat off Elain. “If we suffered, or perished, they just caught and bred more of us. They wouldn’t give a shit if their fruit poisoned us. Hell, they might like it better.”

The older woman who was the group’s de facto leader wrinkled her nose in consternation. “Peace, Ronin, there are children present.”

Ronin. Lucien searched his memory, hoping the name would spark something. He was one of the few adult men in the village in any kind of good physical condition, so he guessed this man was a deserter, if he’d bothered to enlist in Leith’s army at all. What a piece of shit, swaggering about in front of these vulnerable folk, as though he did anything at all to earn it. 

Ronin swayed as he tried to stand. Pathetic. “They deserve to know the truth, don’t they? Why do you deny it, woman?”

Lucien could have rolled his eyes at this spectacle, at this worthless excuse for a man trying to intimidate an elder, and a female at that. I ought to give him a proper opponent. But he had to be mindful of the other villagers, who seemed too fearful and skittish to speak up. He mustn’t frighten them further.

He cleared his throat, trying to draw the man’s attention. “I find it an accurate enough description. Many atrocities were committed by fae against humans, for which your folk have never been compensated.”

Ronin sat back down, probably too drunk to mount a proper answer, or unwilling to get into it with one who might pose a real threat to him, but another man on a bench nearby poked a fork in Lucien’s direction. “And who’s going to pay us? You?” he seethed. “Can you bring back our dead? Undo their suffering?”

That seemed to snap the villagers’ restraint, for several started shouting at Lucien, or railing against the presence of a fae in the village at all. 

“Faerie scum, how do we know you didn’t slaughter them?” one woman snarled at him.

“Have you come here to gloat over our misery?”

“We ought to kill you, and all others like you, and take our vengeance —“

“Your words mean shit to us, fae. You're all talk, no action.”

A few of the folk were begging their compatriots to calm themselves, to recall that there were children and guests in their midst, but Lucien sensed that the mood of the crowd was turning against him, and he discreetly scanned his surroundings for options. Could he grab Elain quickly enough, shield her, if the people got violent?

He cast about for the right words to reassure them, to make them understand that he was no threat, but then Elain stood up, her sweet voice coming out strong and commanding. “Let him speak. Let him give you an answer.”

Lucien stared up at her in wonder. Was this the same female who’d fled from the ballroom, who’d seemed to shrink away from unpleasant confrontations? She hadn't looked once in his direction, since they had arrived at the supper gathering, and probably still hated the sight of him. But at least, in front of these people, she was managing to present a united front with him. He could be grateful for something.

Then his instincts kicked into gear, and he rose to address them, carefully turning towards each person in the crowd to emphasize his sincerity. “Were it in my power to right all those wrongs, I would. Instead, I can only offer two small consolations.” He thought quickly about how to phrase his offer, for it would be disastrous if he overpromised and couldn’t deliver. These people were already distrustful enough, and didn’t need to add more disappointments to their lists. “First, that you need not suffer from needless hardship. The Consortium — that’s the four seasonal courts, acting together — can offer you aid. Money, medicine, whatever practical help you require.”

The mention of medicine seemed to pique their interest, and his ears caught a few murmurs about what practical help might mean, if they could ask for better housing, or bows and arrows to hunt with. Lucien noted that for later. These folk didn’t seem to care about money, for they seemed to have no trade relationships with other groups, but any intervention that could make them more self-sufficient would be on the table.

“And the second?” an older male, who looked like he could be Ronin’s uncle or father, asked belligerently.

Lucien turned towards Briar. She’d been the one conferring directly with villagers — had she brought up the conference, explained its implications? She gave him a nod of encouragement, seeming to indicate that his approach was a good one, and he turned back towards the villagers. “The second would be legal in nature. You ought to have formal rights under the law, laid out and sealed with binding magic, so that you never need fear that what was done to your ancestors will be done again.” At least, any diplomatic agreement they signed off on would apply to all Prythian. He could only hope that Hybern, and the other fae realms, would see that the humans were well-defended.

The folk were listening, more or less quietly, so he concluded, “If you would send representatives to the palace, participate in our diplomatic conference, you can make that happen.” And he saw, to his relief, that the group had calmed down, that they were deliberating his words in silence. Several of them were even nodding, seeming to at least take the idea under consideration.

“These are pretty enough words, but you speak as though these atrocities are all in the past.” It was the woman in the headscarf, her face alight with anger. “What of the humans slaughtered by your kind within living memory? The soldiers, the civilians? Folk murdered in their beds?”

Your kind. Yes, his kind had done terrible things, monstrous things, and these people were not wrong to fear and revile them for it. Lucien could try to blame it all on Hybern, but was Hybern so uniquely wicked? He could personally name dozens of fae within Prythian who were just as corrupt and bloodthirsty, who would have done the exact same, or worse, had they been in the King of Hybern’s position. And many others who would have colluded, either to aggrandize themselves, gain power and influence, or to preserve their own interests and safety.

How many fae were truly benevolent, safe as allies for humans? Was he even safe, if it came down to it? He didn’t dare contemplate the answer.

The woman was continuing to lay down her accusation, her voice rising in anger. “What of my sister? Some say it wasn’t faeries, but we all know better. They came charging across that Wall, and they pillaged and burned, and murdered her and her husband and all their household, and took her daughter. Her innocent daughter, barely out of girlhood, whose body was never recovered. What say you to that?”

Lucien’s eye began to click rapidly as the details of the story sank in. This all sounded entirely too familiar. “What was her name?” he asked, trying to force his voice to come out steadfast. “Your sister.”

“Arianne,” the woman said softly, hugging her arms around her middle, as though she could enfold her sister within them. “Arianne Beddor.”

Beddor.

Lucien’s legs wobbled as the name clanged through him, and he reeled, images flooding him of the sweet youthful girl screaming in terror as her body was tortured, tearfully denying that she had ever loved Tamlin, or even met him, of burning flesh and shrieks and blood —

He stumbled, then catapulted across the clearing, his stomach heaving with guilt and revulsion. Tamlin had denied that Clare was his beloved, had declared that he had never met her before, but of course Amarantha hadn’t believed him. Nor had she been interested in Lucien’s account, dismissing him as a sycophant and lackey, who would repeat whatever lies Tamlin ordered him to.

No, it was Rhys whose voice carried the weight of authority with her, gods-damned Rhys who had taken Clare’s name from Feyre’s naïve lips and whispered it in Amarantha’s ear, knowing full well that it was the wrong person. Lucien's throat burned with bile, as he replayed those fraught moments in his memory. Rhys had forced them to grovel, to beg that he wouldn’t reveal their secret, and then he had fucking gone and done it anyway.

Lucien had tormented himself many times, wondering what he could have done differently in those moments. Could he have interrupted Feyre, prevented her from blurting Clare’s name to him? He should have caused a distraction, warned her somehow — but he hadn’t known Clare was a real person. And he had thought it would be too risky, calling Feyre out as a liar, provoking Rhys’s retaliation against her or Tamlin. He had thought Rhys would detect the deception, that he could pluck Feyre’s name right from her mind anyway.

At the time, he had thought they'd been lucky.

He caught himself before he could sprawl, then lowered himself to look up at the woman, whose furious face had slackened with shock at his reaction. “We did not know there were survivors.” He impulsively clasped the woman’s hands, which had started to tremble uncontrollably. "I’m sorry to confirm what you already know, but your sister was attacked by faeries.”

He could feel all their eyes upon him, silently waiting, judging, condemning, but he forced himself to go on anyway. “Faeries from Hybern, to be precise, who had conquered the lands north of the Wall. Like those who invaded during the War. Only these were ruled by a wicked, jealous queen, who hated humankind with a passion.”

He shuddered, in terror and revulsion, not wanting to speak Amarantha’s name. It was foul, like uttering a curse, and he didn't want to desecrate this protected place with her memory. Don’t think about that fucking bitch now, you can’t afford to lose your focus.

“Fucking Hybern,” a man muttered angrily, and the others echoed him, cursing the King and all of his monsters.

But Lucien’s focus was still on the woman in front of him, who was stammering in confusion. “But I-I don’t understand. Why them?”

Why indeed. He’d asked himself that many times, what had possessed Feyre to name a real person. Had she nursed some grudge against Clare or her family? It seemed not, at least from what Leith had told him, when he’d finally worked up the courage to ask. The elder Archeron had been outright befuddled when he’d asked if there was bad blood between the Beddors and Archerons.

Why, not at all, why’d you ask? Thom Beddor was a good enough fellow, he’d said, scrunching up his brow in confusion. He made his fortune in the tea trade, bought the estate with his first year of earnings, but never let it get to his head. We did good business, before the troubles. They didn't have much extra to send our way during hard times — who does, you know? — but the girls had stayed friendly…

Lucien bowed his head, too overcome with guilt to meet the woman’s accusing eyes. “It was a case of mistaken identity. A grievous error.” He glanced back over his shoulder at Elain, whose lovely face was darkened with sorrow, then just as quickly looked away. Clare’s death would have been hers, along with all of her household, if Rhys had not been Feyre’s mate. He would have tossed the Archerons to the wolves, without hesitation, probably gleeful at how it would upset Tamlin.

Anger burned low in his gut, a seething resentment at the High Lord of the Night Court and his fucking cruel games, his selfish depravity. How many others had died horribly so that Rhys could protect his best warriors? It was bad enough that he’d withheld their might from Prythian, when they could have made a real difference in fighting off Amarantha — even Amren alone would have been an incalculable advantage. But to sacrifice innocents on top of that — what was Lucien supposed to tell this grieving woman?

An innocent girl had to die horribly, enduring those days of pain and terror, simply because she was no one important.

“And what of those responsible?” Clare’s aunt asked tightly.

Lucien lifted his face up to hers, taking in the tightly pressed lips, the clenched teeth, the unshed tears glimmering in her eyes. ““The queen and all her monsters are dead, so justice is done in that respect.”

He almost left it there, for that would put them all at ease, make them think the matter settled. But the image of Clare’s broken body would haunt him forever, her plaintive screams, her horror and confusion. He couldn’t do anything to help her then, but now, perhaps, things were different.

So he met the woman’s tearful gaze, and said forthrightly, “But the ones responsible for the error, who gave the queen your niece’s name for a target — that is another matter.”

The woman’s eyes flashed with anger. “They must die.”

Lucien lowered his head in apology. “I cannot offer you that. That is not within my power to grant you, or anyone’s power, for that matter.” He shuddered, contemplating what horror would befall Prythian if they challenged Rhys too openly. Rhys’s power was unnatural, far exceeding the other High Lords put together. And what would happen to Elain, if her court went to war with the rest of them? Would she lose her sisters, her husband, maybe even die in a siege of Velaris?

Yet Rhys had to be held accountable somehow. There had to be a way to do it.

His thoughts were interrupted by a roar of anger. “It was her, wasn’t it?”

Lucien whirled around to see that one of the men, the one he’d thought might be the drunkard’s father, pointing accusingly at Elain. “This Archeron bitch, or one of her sisters. They’re fae now — maybe were all along. There was always something queer about them, thinking they were better than the rest of us.”

Lucien stood up, fuming with anger, his muscles burning with the need to lash out, rip out the man’s throat, punish him for his insolence. Don’t kill him, some distant, rational part of him warned, you still need to win these people over.

Elain had gone pale, her eyes wide with shock. “Clare was my friend. I would never do anything to hurt her.”

Lucien breathed out, furiously struggling to rein in his temper, as the stupid man continued to rant about the Archeron sisters, how they were witches and harlots who’d sacrificed the Beddors to become faerie, and forced himself to count to ten. If the wards hadn’t prevented all magic, he might have cast a sound shield around the dumb idiot, to shield the rest of them from these vile accusations — or he might have just lit the bastard on fire. Perhaps it was better to not have that temptation.

Elain had risen from the bench, her hands clasped into fists. “Do not dare insult my sisters.”

Lucien’s heart pounded wildly in his chest as the man snarled back, “Or what? You’ll curse me with your magic? You just try it, faerie bitch, and I’ll split your skull with my axe —“

Don’t kill him, don’t kill him —

Lucien’s body was already moving, flinging itself directly at the asshole with a death wish, before he knew quite what he was doing. But he was through the bonfire and in front of Elain, grappling for the man’s axe and disarming him. Then he tightened his hand around the man’s fist until he’d forced him to yield several steps away from Elain, and wrenched a satisfying groan of pain from him.

“You raise this hand against her again, and that’s the last time you’ll ever use it for anything,” Lucien growled, keeping his grip firm, steadily applying more and more pressure until the man screamed. It wasn’t enough to satisfy his blood, which was roaring through him, demanding him to punish, get revenge, kill anyone who threatened Elain. 

But he couldn’t give in to those instincts now, not with a scared human audience, so he relented a fraction, snarling, “Are we clear?”

“Faerie — scum —“ the man gritted out, his foul alcohol-tinged breath and rank sweat making Lucien want to shrink back with revulsion.

Instead, he wrenched the man’s wrist, making him howl in agony. Careful, control, don’t break him to pieces, he’s still the human and you’re still the faerie.

“That wasn’t the first time you threatened a female with violence, was it?” he challenged, wondering just how often his piece of shit threw his weight around in this village. “But it’s going to be the last, or you’ll wish I’d killed you here and now.”

Then Lucien shoved him away, and the man sprawled out on the ground, blubbering incoherently. People jumped up and out of the way, and Lucien braced himself for the angry backlash. Against their better judgment, they had permitted him entry, and now he had openly threatened one of their number, laid hands on him and caused him pain. That the man had deserved to suffer could not be plainer, from Lucien’s perspective, but what if the villagers didn’t see it that way? What if the threat of an angry faerie, who could do real damage, far outweighed the weak insults of one drunken idiot?

The man was being hoisted up now, checked over by the two men who were probably his sons, and then Linnet was approaching Lucien, bearing a toddler in her arms that must have gotten separated from its mother, or simply needed comfort. He waited, wondering whether she’d ask him to leave, or demand he apologize, and if she would ask Elain to leave with him.

Idiot, you’ve ruined the mission, now we’ll never get the humans to trust us, he berated himself. He didn’t know what else he ought to have done — he couldn’t allow harm to come to Elain, or risk the whole Night Court descending on this village, bent on vengeance — but he was supposed to be clever, Cauldron damn it.

“The laws of hospitality are clear,” Linnet said. “We do not raise our hands in violence towards those to whom we have extended welcome. On behalf of us all, I apologize for our group member’s outburst.”

Truly? Lucien almost couldn’t believe it.

“This faerie has shown restraint and patience. I believe we can trust his words as genuine,” she went on, turning in a slow circle to take in all the villagers’ reactions — waiting for any to raise an objection. When the folk just stayed silent, she turned back to Lucien. “Then the matter is considered settled.”

Lucien so wanted to believe that — to think that he could sit back down to the supper, and all that unpleasantness could be forgiven. But he had to wonder if it was just the opposite. His little show of strength might have cowed them. Were they afraid of offending him by asking him to leave? Were they simply placating him?

He looked over at Lyra, who was sat with her brothers, staring at him with a frozen expression. He’d frightened her, he was sure of it. “Still, if my presence here disturbs you, I will not stay.” He indicated Lyra, adding, “I have made a vow to one of your number, but I need not interrupt your dinner to fulfill it.”

Linnet frowned at him. At least, her reactions seemed unafraid, genuine. “You were not the cause of the interruption.”

“Nevertheless, my presence here is disruptive,” Lucien said anxiously. His fingers began to ball up into fists, and he quickly clasped them together instead, so they would not misinterpret the gesture as aggressive. “Your people have suffered enough, due to my kind, and I am determined that I must not add to it. Perhaps I ought to depart.”

For a moment, no one spoke, and he prepared to bow out with apologies, but then a warm hand cupped his elbow.

He froze at the feel of those slender fingers, then forced himself to breathe again as Elain’s palm pressed against his shirtsleeve. He didn’t have to look to know it was Elain, for although she’d never willingly touched him before, and probably never would again, there was something heartbreakingly familiar about the feel of her hand on his skin, like an echo of a song that had never been written, much less sung by anyone, but he was sure it would have made the sweetest music.

“Sit down, Lucien,” Elain said. “Join us.”

What could he do, but obey?

He took a final ragged breath, steeling himself against his roiling feelings, then turned to her and offered her his arm, like any proper human gentleman. After a too-long moment of hesitation, Elain took it, and they walked back to their seats together. Elain’s hand withdrew as soon as they sat down, as though his skin burned her, and a wave of sorrow and bitterness washed over him.

He could imagine all of his friends scolding him, Vassa the most strident of all, but his own feelings of disappointment were louder still. What did you expect? She’s never liked you, or tolerated your presence. She’s just putting on a good show for these people. It’s for the mission.

It was almost a relief to look up and see that Clare Beddor’s aunt was before him, tears flowing openly down her cheeks, as though she trusted him enough to let him see them. “You said the ones who betrayed my family still live, but you cannot kill them outright.”

He gulped. “That is correct. However, if you wish it, I can pursue the matter.” He glanced nervously at Elain, wondering how much she knew about Clare’s death, that they were alluding to her brother-in-law. He wouldn’t dare reveal that connection, not after that drunken oaf’s accusations. “There are other ways of getting justice, besides killing.”

“Like what,” the human woman asked flatly.

“Like filing a formal complaint, requesting a tribunal,” he suggested. Kallias had long wanted to do just that, but the others had always balked at it, feeling like the accusation against Rhys was too personal. But if a complaint came from someone disinterested, a neutral party not affiliated with any court, they couldn’t very well ignore it. “I can’t guarantee any particular outcome, but you would be heard, and you could request compensation.”

“That wouldn’t bring them back,” the woman said bitterly, but he could see she was at least considering the suggestion.

Then Elain coughed, almost like a strangled sob had escaped her, and without thinking much about the propriety of it, he reached out a hand to discreetly touch her back, to try to calm her without calling attention to her. She tensed, but then seemed to settle, and he tried to ignore the implications of that as he said to Clare’s aunt, “What I’m suggesting is fundamentally unfair, I know. Even killing them outright would not be enough, for they would only die once, for a moment, and then be at rest and no longer suffering. While we, those of us who are left grieving, have to go on and on.”

The woman nodded, accepting this answer, and he went on, “I will be returning to the palace in a few days. I can speak to the High Lords then. After the diplomatic conference wraps up, we would call an official tribunal, and summon the accused to it. We would have to think about how to frame it, to actually get them to attend.”

Elain straightened, and he hastily dropped his hand. Had he overstepped, by touching her again? He tried to go on, as though it didn’t bother him. “I don't want to make this sound easy. It might be a process, without formal diplomatic relations,” Lucien was saying.

The woman huffed, “I don’t have your immortal lifespan. If you think you can draw this out for decades —“

“I won’t do that. I live with humans,” Lucien said, trying not to feel offended at the insinuation. She’s rightfully upset, don’t take it personally. “I know time is of the essence.”

“You live with humans? Where?” Lyra’s mother asked, leaning forward with interest. “How did that happen?”

Lucien managed to crack a smile, thrilled to have a chance to tell the story. “You’ve all heard of Queen Vassa the Firebird?”

He was getting eager nods, even a few gasps, and Lyra’s mother exclaimed, “What? She’s not mythical?”

“Oh, definitely not,” Lucien chortled. “She was cursed by a sorcerer-lord, bound to the Deathless Lake, and I was sent to go find her.”

“Told you he was really a dragon,” Lyra crowed, elbowing her brothers.

Lucien winked at her, then went on, “Well, after many mishaps and adventures, I managed to get to the Continent.”

“Did you pass through Chollerford?” a man interrupted.

“What about Hexham?”

“Did you happen to meet up with a man called John Carlisle? He’s my cousin —“

Lucien held up his hands, begging for patience. “I’ll get to all that, I promise. I passed through many human settlements, both on the way to the Lake and back, met many folks. Some even friendly.”

“How’d you get by without fighting?” Castor asked, wide-eyed.

“Who ever said there wasn’t fighting?” Lucien asked, nearly laughing aloud at the boy’s nervous expression. He didn’t seem to have forgotten that he’d slugged Lucien in the face, and was probably wondering when he’d get his punishment. “But not as much as you’d probably think. Folk were preoccupied with the war effort, and it wasn’t hard to convince them to let me be, especially once I met up with Vassa and Leith.”

“Leith? Leith Archeron?” another man piped up excitedly. “The general?”

“The one and only,” Lucien said, gladdened to see that they’d remembered him. He turned towards Elain then, about to mention that Leith was her father, to try to bring her into the conversation, then tried not to react outwardly when he saw that she had gotten up from the gathering and was walking away, apparently having had enough of his company.

He swallowed down all of his sour disappointment, then turned back to the humans, plastering a smile back across his face. “Have you ever heard of Koschei the Deathless, and the merchant-general who tricked him with a bargain?”

The folk crowded in around him, and he launched into his story, and tried to forget Elain had ever been there at all.

Chapter Text

”And thus the sorcerer’s curse was broken, eleven years to the day since he cast it,” Lucien concluded, gazing around at the shining, eager faces all around him.

“Is the queen still infected with magic?” a man asked, frowning in consternation. He was one of the few Scythians in the village, who’d fought in the War on board the Nesta and had made his way to Summer’s refugee camps after.

“Well. I wouldn’t call it infected,” Lucien hedged. “That makes it sound like a sickness, when really it is more of a power. She can summon wings of burning fire, then fold them away when it suits her. It’s strikingly beautiful, not to mention intimidating to her enemies.” He looked up at the man and smiled. “Queen Vassa is returning to Scythia, to re-ascend to the throne, and would welcome any loyal supporters.”

Would these people want to return to the human lands, given the opportunity? Judging by the range of reactions, from shocked gasps to a few head-shakes, he wasn’t at all certain. They had had a dozen years to go back already, but they had chosen to establish themselves here, put down roots, have children. Perhaps they had told themselves they were simply waiting for the right reason to uproot themselves again, but were now finding the reality quite different.

Lucien could sympathize on a personal level. The prospect of returning to Spring, or to Autumn, filled him with a dread that he knew was irrational. Beron was gone, and Tamlin was better, and yet the old ghosts of past tortures and heartaches would always haunt Lucien in those lands regardless.

We are all in the same position, he thought, gazing at the earnest folk all about him, these humans who thought him so strange and different. We're all vagabonds, exiles, who live among strangers.

The Scythian was gazing thoughtfully into the distance. “A return to my homeland — I would have not thought it possible. But the prospect of taking up arms again, against those of my own kind? I would have to think on it.” Several of the other men nodded, looking relieved that he had said it. Some might have called it cowardly to refuse the call to support one’s queen, but framed as a need to spare fellow humans, that reluctance sounded virtuous.

“We’re all battle weary,” Lucien said, his heart heavy, for Vassa’s fight was his own even if he couldn’t get involved personally. “We all wish to avoid bloodshed. Perhaps it will not come to sword-strikes and daggers. After fighting so hard for human freedom, the queen and her general won’t wish to kill their own subjects.”

But it could happen. He knew that as well as anyone. The usurper-queen was reputed to be willful and petulant, supported by grasping nobles who saw her as their puppet. But no one ever willingly gave up a throne once they had it. Even if they didn’t want to rule, they couldn’t risk ceding power to enemies of their bloodline, or plunging their people into a bloody war of succession.

“Did you say Hexham is resettled?” a woman asked, mercifully diverting his thoughts from their gloomy subject. “The town square is rebuilt?”

“All but a few empty storefronts,” he replied. “The harbor is in much better shape, at least it was last year when I visited.”

He had been fielding questions like this all evening, and wished he could access his magic, so he might retrieve his maps of the human realms and show the people the notes he’d been making. He hadn’t been further south than the Deathless Lake, to the lands beyond the horse-plains and forests, but these folk all hailed from the northern lands, anyway. Some had been dejected to learn that their hometowns had not been rebuilt, or languished in bad repair, while others had seemed relieved to hear it — like their choice of staying away had been vindicated.

“Did you happen to see a man there called Martin?” the woman continued. “He was our squire, a most worthy fellow. He was meant to be serving on board the Feyre.”

Lucien tsked sadly. “All hands aboard the Feyre were lost, I'm afraid.”

The woman nodded, sighing softly. “I told him he ought to come away with us. But his sons had both enlisted, and he couldn’t bear the thought that he would be leaving them to fight for him, while he sat idly by in safety.”

A few in the crowd bristled, apparently taking this as a criticism of their own choices, but Lucien leaned back and sighed. What was it that Leith always said? The young perish, and the old linger.

He knew Leith had said it from personal experience — that guilt over his former poverty and illness plagued him. He blamed himself for his daughters’ troubles, for if he’d been wiser and more circumspect, they might have avoided losing their fortune, and of course he’d gotten sick afterwards, and leaving his daughters to care for him when he ought to have provided. And when Lucien had tried to point out that their village had failed them, that there were no provisions for helping the needy, Leith had blamed himself for that as well, for what he’d failed to do in his days of wealth and influence.

What could he have done for these people, if he’d survived the War? It was too sad a subject to dwell on.

Linnet cleared her throat, drawing the group’s attention. “It’s time to wash up,” she said simply, and the folk began to clear away, each having a pre-appointed task to perform. Briar was talking earnestly to the women, helping them to gather up spoons and dishes, and he wondered idly where Elain had gone, then scolded himself for it. How quickly he’d succumbed to his old, foolish habits.

I’m just thinking about the mission, he tried to tell himself, knowing full well it was bullshit.

Lucien rose from the bench, smiling broadly at Linnet. “What can I do?”

She gestured towards another enclosure, then pressed a bowl of stew into his hands. “Why don’t you bring Fallon his dinner.”

“Fallon? Captain Fallon?” Lucien nearly dropped the bowl in his excitement when Linnet eagerly nodded. “By the Cauldron, I didn’t know he was here in the village — I ought to have gone to him sooner.” He examined the woman more closely. “Forgive me my ignorance. He often spoke of a sweetheart named Lin. I did realize that was you until just now.”

“And he’s often told me of a golden-eyed fae, the one decent pointy-eared fellow he served with. I knew it was you from the moment you got here.” The woman’s eyes crinkled in the corners as she smiled, but there was sorrow in her expression, too. “It’s been a tough road, this past twelve-month. He’s barely left the house of healing.”

Lucien clasped her hand. “I am terribly sorry to hear it. Is it the wound from the poisoned arrow?” She nodded dejectedly, and he growled softly in frustration. “I told him to get that looked at properly.”

“I know. He’s a stubborn old bastard. But that’s why we love him, I suppose.” She patted his hand, then gave him a gentle nudge. “Go on, or the stew’ll get cold.”

So Lucien trudged up towards the so-called house of healing, which was little more than a ramshackle cottage, bowl cradled in one hand, and knocked on the door with the other.

“Go on, wretch, I’m tryin t’sleep,” called a grumpy and very familiar voice from inside.

Lucien pressed his cheek to the door, grinning like a fiend as he called back, “You were always a lazybones, weren’t you, Fallon? Why, you would’ve slept through the final battle, if they hadn’t sent me to wake you, and missed out on your share of the glory.”

He chuckled softly into the silence, as the man within worked out the puzzle in his words. “Goldeye?” There was a dull clatter, and then a spate of disgruntled cursing, and then, “Well, get your fae ass in here, before you’re spotted!”

Lucien laughed, and pried the door open with his free hand, his eyes blinking rapidly to adjust to the dim light. The fire had nearly gone out, and he navigated around the makeshift beds to approach the hearth at the center of the hut poke at the embers with his toe, letting the fire breathe again, before he approached the man’s bedside and slid the stew onto a low wooden table. “It’s too late for that, they’ve all seen me.”

“And didn’t run screaming? I’m impressed,” Fallon chortled. He lifted a trembling pale hand, and Lucien grasped it, shaking it in proper human fashion, before reaching down to pluck the platter and cup that he’d heard being knocked to the floor, even as his friend snorted, “Oh, don’t bother. They’ll get tossed into the washbasin, and come out dirtier still.”

Lucien plopped down onto the wooden stool next to his bed. “It’s a wonder you’re not all dead from infection.” He let his eyes examine Fallon more closely, displeased at the man’s clammy skin, too-thin muscles and overall frailty. “Or other things.”

“Hmph,” Fallon grumbled, letting his hand drop limply by his side. “If this is going to be one of your lectures —“

“You don’t have time for that, old friend,” Lucien said gravely. “I’ve got to get you to a healer.”

The old man shook his head. Gods, he’d gotten so much grayer, just in the dozen years since the war ended. Lucien always forgot how quickly and visibly humans could age, especially when their lives were difficult. “I’ll have none of your fae meddling, Goldeye.”

“Not meddling. Medicine,” Lucien corrected him.

“Medicine, magic, whatever you call your brand of meddling, you know my considered opinion,” Fallon insisted. His intelligent brown eyes were fully open now, gazing up at Lucien pensively. “Though looking at you now, how you’ve not aged a day, can’t say I’m not tempted. Time’s been kind to you, Lucien.”

Kind would not have been Lucien’s first choice of description for what the past twelve years had been like for him, nor the fifty years before that, but looking at his dying friend lying limply in bed, he found he couldn’t quibble. “The best healer anywhere is visiting Summer right now, at the palace. I could bring you there, if you don’t want her here. Though your people really need her services.”

Fallon shook his head. “You I can vouch for, but not a stranger.”

Lucien sighed. Stubborn, distrustful humans. Not that he could really blame them. He waved his bandaged hand in Fallon’s vision. “Eos fixed this hand like new, after I exploded it with a glass.” He unwrapped it a little, bracing himself for what it might look like, but to his relief the skin was his usual golden brown color, not the raw bleeding mess it had been before, and there were only faint lines where she’d added stitches. “She’s also the one who helped with my eye, and that was the same kind of poison your arrow-strike was.”

“No one’s supposed to know that we’re here. I can’t betray the rest of the village,” Fallon said wearily. “We’ve been through too much already.”

“Oh?” Lucien leaned forward with interest. “Is that why the whole place is shielded with magic?”

The man startled, trying to shove up from the bed. “You know about that? It’s —“ He winced, clutching at his side, but managed to grit out, “— supposed to be secret.”

“Peace, old friend, I’ve told no one,” Lucien assured him, gently coaxing him to lay back down. It wasn’t like Fallon to be so skittish, and that concerned him. “No one except Leith’s daughter.”

Fallon’s eyes widened. “Which daughter? D’ya mean — her?” His lips formed a knowing smirk. “Sly dog. You brought her here?”

“No, not exactly,” Lucien stammered, feeling the blood rushing to his face. He recalled some of the more foolish things he’d told Leith, and the few other humans he’d once called friends, about fae mating bonds and how he’d had one with an Archeron daughter. He wished to the Mother that he’d never mentioned it. “It was rather the other way round. She came here first, and I followed.”

“Course you did, lad,” Fallon said, winking at him. “If the talk of her beauty is to be believed, she ought to have men following her everywhere.”

Lucien clamped down hard on his reaction. He ought to feel nothing, with the bond gone, but the joke had been a little too close to the truth to be humorous. “Why a secret shield?” he pressed, desperate to change the subject back.

“Incursions from the wrong sort of folk,” Fallon said gravely, casting a cautious eye around the room, as though double checking that they were alone. “Ruffians and rabble-rousers, stirring up trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

His old friend sighed deeply again. “The kind that can land you in a fae prison, if not executed outright.”

Lucien shifted in his seat. “Like treason?”

Fallon pursed his lips. “Your word, not mine.”

“I know there’s a plot to topple Tarquin. I've spoken to several informants. High Lords do fend off assassination attempts, now and again. But there’s usually someone high ranking behind it, someone for the magic will pass to. Tarquin’s one surviving close male relative lives at the Night Court, and it’s highly unlikely he’d be involved,” Lucien said.

It wasn’t totally impossible, but Lucien doubted that Varian would want the throne of Summer, not when he’d basically abandoned the territory to live with Amren. Perhaps Night wanted to disrupt the Consortium’s lock on Prythian’s trade routes, but even Rhys and Feyre wouldn’t be that devious, or foolish, as to engineer a coup. Besides, even if they were desperate enough to attempt it, they’d much sooner target Eris or Tamlin than Tarquin, whose caring and forgiving nature they would seek to manipulate.

Fallon shrugged. “I don’t know how the magic bit is meant to work. What I do know is our young men were getting roped into something they didn’t understand, and we had to put a stop to it. So we made inquiries, discreetly, about magic that could shield us from everyone - make us invisible to outsiders who might try to prey upon us.” He gave Lucien a pained smile. “I’m sworn to secrecy on that part of it.”

“Oh, that's all right,” Lucien said, though he was burning with curiosity about whose magic it was, or where it might have come from. “It just bothers me that they involved humans at all. That doesn’t fit with anything I know about the political situation here in Summer. Attitudes towards humans are still rather backwards.”

Fallon coughed, a hollow, racking sort of cough that rattled ominously in Lucien’s ears. “The men involved were far too gullible, actually believing that lot would accept them, willingly give humans power. More like if something went wrong, they could pin the blame on someone.”

“I was told these leaders made promises.” What was it that Fulvia had mentioned? Money. Land. A new beginning, and revenge for old grievances. “They made it sound like a populist uprising.”

Fallon snorted. “And you believe that?”

“I believe they thought it the truth,” Lucien said, “whatever the reality might be.”

“You want to know what I think, lad?” When Lucien nodded, Fallon went on, “I think someone’s pulling all their strings, jerking them about in a dance. Putting on a show like a distraction.”

“Unfortunately, I think you’re right,” Lucien said. “I’m sorry your people were caught in the middle of it.”

He considered what he ought to do with this information -- whether he could sneak out of the village later to where the shield ended, so that he could write it all down in a letter and send it via the spelled parchment. Or risk winnowing back to the palace, just briefly, to report on his findings in person.

“So,” he said, trying to lighten the mood, “Linnet is impressive.”

Fallon grinned. “Knew you’d like her. We’ve had some good years, her and I.”

“She is quite the natural leader,” Lucien said. “But I don't like how some folks talk to her.”

The man jolted at that, shoving up onto his elbows. “Is it the Mandrays? Stupid bastards.”

“Probably? I didn’t catch their names. They were half-drunk at dinner, and belligerent. The elder, especially. He had an axe, thought it made him someone important.” Lucien couldn’t help but smirk a bit as he added, “He wasn’t so swaggering once he had a proper opponent.”

“Goldeye. You didn’t make a scene, did you?” Fallon asked reproachfully.

“Me? Would I ever?” Lucien asked with mock wounded pride. “I merely pointed out the error of his ways.”

“I can imagine. He likely won’t show his face around here for a fortnight,” Fallon chuckled. “Good on you, for standing up to that bully.”

Lucien inclined his head, but it sat uneasily with him. Why should the villagers have to put up with boorish behavior? Who would keep the rowdier folks in line, if Fallon was too ill to do it?

“If we hadn’t needed a woodcutter at the time, we would have turned him out of the village years ago. Ever since his wife passed on, he’s taken out his anger on the village. All the folk are a little afraid of him.” Fallon was grumbling, grimacing in discomfort. Lucien wrung his hands helplessly, hating that even his meager healing magic was blocked, and he could do nothing to relieve his friend’s pain.

“I’m sure other people can learn to cut wood,” he said angrily. “Hell, give me the axe and I’ll give you a stockpile.”

“Bet you would, lad. It's appreciated.” Fallon gingerly lowered himself back to the straw mattress, which couldn’t be comfortable, much less restorative. “But don’t you worry about them Mandrays. They’re fae haters, but they back down if you challenge them.” That lined up with Lucien’s experience, thankfully, so he didn’t quibble as Fallon went on, “Lin is our midwife, and our top healer. All the folk love and respect her.”

Lucien nodded, though that didn’t take away his uneasiness. “Can I ask you another question?”

“You already did, Goldeye,” Fallon quipped, then waved a hand. “I’m listening.”

“There’s a little girl, Lyra, who’s missing her father. I’ve promised to help her, if I can.”

“Ah. Tyndareus,” supplied Fallon. “Yes, well, that’s complicated.”

“Is he alive? Am I doing the right thing by saying I’ll search for him?”

“Yes? And maybe?” Fallon sighed. “You’d better ask Lin that question. She knows more of that family than I do.”

So there is something to it. “So many secrets.”

“Yes, well, when you’re a sheep among wolves, you ought to be cautious. Lin and I keep each other’s counsels, but there are times where it’s better not to know all the details. Then we operate on a need-to-know basis.“ He flashed a sheepish grin at Lucien. “Don’t take it personal, Goldeye, but you’re still a faerie. There’s only so much I can ever tell you.”

You’re still a faerie. It always came back to that, didn’t it? Lucien pointed out, “Leith always held out hope our two realms could be allies, that we wouldn't have to abide by such barriers.”

“Leith was always a hopeless dreamer,” Fallon said, huffing a soft laugh. “It was honor to work for him, but a challenge.”

“He needed folk like you, who were practical. Who could drag him back down to Earth when his ideals got too lofty,” Lucien said.

“And maybe I needed someone like him,” Fallon agreed, “to lift up my eyes, to see what was possible. What was it he always said?”

Lucien smiled wistfully. “That people need hope, as much as bread and meat.”

They were interrupted by a soft knock on the door.

“That’ll be Lin or one of her messengers. Probably come to fetch us,” Fallon said, then craned his neck to call out more loudly, “Well, go on, enter.”

The door opened, and Lucien sucked in a sharp breath as Elain stepped inside. She looked ethereally lovely in the firelight, her pale skin aglow, the simple cotton sundress and apron draping over her curves just so. He tried not to tense up as she looked in his direction, her eyes rapidly sweeping past him and then settling on Fallon. Of course she wouldn’t be looking at him. It was stupid to feel bitter over it.

Fallon, for his part, got one look at her and began to grin idiotically. “So this is the Archeron lass they all speak of? Come closer, my eyes aren’t what they once were. We were just reminiscing about your father.” He held out a hand to her, and she approached, smiling politely but looking very skittish. Lucien doubted she would shy away from a sick man, after the years she’d spent tending to Leith in his infirmity, so it had to be him she was uncomfortable with.

“Why, yes. I do see the resemblance. Well met, my dear,” Fallon said, oblivious to both their discomfort.

“Thank you, sir,” Elain said, all manners and easy politeness. “You must be Fallon. I am Elain.”

“Of course you are, you're just like Leith told us.” Fallon tried to sit up more, groaning softly and clutching at the site of his old war wound, blanching and then regaining his color. He reached out a shaky hand, which Elain took readily. “I served on your namesake, lass. Served most proudly. This rogue and I” — here he jerked his head towards Lucien — “had many a time on board, didn’t we, Goldeye?”

Elain sputtered a laugh at that. “Goldeye?”

Was she mocking him? Of course the scars around it were ugly, but most people found his mechanical eye interesting — a few females had even told him it was beautiful. But perhaps that had been part of her revulsion all along, that she found him ugly, jarring to look at.

Perhaps that would have made his heartbreak easier to bear, if he really believed she was simply that shallow. That it was just his stupid face she’d rejected, and not him at all.

His mechanical eye began to click rapidly, making him dizzy. It had been a mistake, coming here, thinking he could handle this much close contact. For the past ten years he had tried to claw back control, fight to regain some semblance of dignity. He’d forced himself to keep going when he’d rather have perished, and now it was all threatening to come undone again in her presence.

Fallon, mercifully, kept talking, conveniently covering up the fact that Lucien couldn’t muster an answer. “Oh, yes. This one was notorious. The men called him One-eye at first, for the patch he affected to wear for a time. Made you look like a proper pirate, didn’t it.”

Despite himself, Lucien had to chuckle. “They gave me a much wider berth, when they actually thought that I might be one.”

“That they did, but I always knew better. The scar almost sold me, mind you,” Fallon teased him. “But you were too gentlemanly and obliging to be a real ruffian.”

Because a rampaging faerie in the human realm would be shot on sight, Lucien almost objected, but the truth had been even more cringe-worthy.

Because I was trying to impress my mate’s father.

He’d seen a chance, and he’d taken it — the opportunity to learn more about Elain, to ingratiate himself with the one member of her family who was willing to give him a chance. He’d hoped, naively, that after the war, Leith and his daughters would be reunited, and that Leith could put in a good word for him, to at least convince Elain of Lucien’s honorable intentions.

Fallon had turned back to Elain. “When we pulled out of port, we were caught in a tempest. Most of the boys never served on a sailing ship before, and you should have seen the mad scramble. This lad, I’ve never seen anyone move like him — so fast! Like vanishing in and out of thin air. We might well’ve run aground if not for it.”

Lucien wanted to protest at this version of events. Being able to winnow was a huge advantage, so of course he’d been obligated to use it. There was nothing particularly special about it. But it had convinced the skittish humans to tolerate a faerie’s presence, even grant him some grudging respect. He gazed at the floor, his cheeks burning. Compared to what Elain’s own husband accomplished in battles, he’d done nothing so heroic. Certainly nothing that would impress her.

Fallon clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Well! In all the goings on, he lost that silly eyepatch of his, and there was that bit of gold shining out at us. The boys called him Goldeye from that moment forward.”

“They called me many things,” Lucien said — not that he could repeat any of them in polite company.

Fallon burst into a hearty laugh, slapping his knee. “So they did, lad. You bore it with better humor than I would’ve, I’ll tell you.”

What else was he supposed to have done, brawl with everyone who spouted off to him? That was a sure way to cause chaos, and undermine the war effort.

Elain was looking down at them with a befuddled smile, as though she didn’t know quite how to process this information, as Fallon went on, “What your old pa would say, if he could see us here now. Why, I think he’d be delighted.”

Lucien took that opening to needled him, “Not with you, old friend. You really ought to consider my offer.”

Fallon dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “An old sailor’s got to die sometime.”

Stubborn old bastard. Why would he rather die, leaving behind a grieving wife, than risk using magic? Even if he got just a few more years, didn’t he want to help his village? Lucien’s jaw clenched with irritation. “It does not have to be sooner than necessary.”

“Shh. None of that,” Fallon scolded him. “The lady is waiting.”

The lady in question was still studying them, her wide brown eyes dark with concern. Lucien wondered whether this reminded her of Leith’s convalescence, those dreary days when his mind was addled and his body barely capable of movement. She had tended him without flinching, Leith had said, had been the only one of his daughters to show him compassion. He had looked forward to paying her back, saying he would finally have time to dote on her the way she’d done for him when he was struggling. The fact they hadn’t gotten that time still burned sour in the pit of Lucien’s stomach.

And Fallon, who could have that time with his loved ones, was choosing not to pursue it. Lucien couldn’t help but be angry with him for it.

“I’ve got a few songs still in me, and the night’s not getting any younger,” Fallon told them. “Help me up, would you?”

Lucien did so, bracing an arm around his back, wincing when the man still stumbled forward. Then Elain was on his other side, helping to steady him. She was close enough now that her honeyed lavender scent was permeating the room, enough to start to drive Lucien crazy.

How often had he gone into rooms, during his time at the Night Court, only to get a whiff of that scent, even though Elain herself was nowhere to be seen? She was just here, he’d be forced to realize, but she’s left now. I just missed her.

The emptiness in his chest reminded him that he still missed her, and always would, and it made him want to howl in fury.

“Strong lass. That’s the spirit,” Fallon said, breathing hard as he struggled to stay upright.

“Take your time, old friend, there’s no battle,” Lucien reassured him.

After another few moments, Fallon was strong enough to hobble forward again, and Lucien and Elain both guided him forward, inch by slow inch, until he again began to tire. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath, and Lucien gazed over to Elain, who was contemplating the man’s plight with an earnestly kind, frowning expression. Fallon was a total stranger to her, someone she’d met only moments ago, but it was clear that she was worried for him, extending the sort of kindness and caring that Leith had praised so lavishly in his stories.

Then their eyes met, and Lucien almost drew back, almost wrenched his gaze away. He should not be looking at her at all, should not be looking for any reaction. But she was studying him forthrightly, as though analyzing him, figuring him out anew. What did she see? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Go on,” Fallon said gruffly, reaching out for a cane propped up against the wall, “go join the amusement. I’ll be along.”

Amusement? Lucien wasn’t sure his heart could handle it.

“You’re certain?” he asked, eyeing Fallon nervously. Of course the proud old man would want to emerge on his own power, maintaining his dignity, but did he have the strength to do it?

Fallon’s hand trembled on the hilt of the cane, then grabbed for it decisively, and he jerked his head towards the door, commanding, “Go on, Goldeye. Go with your lady. You’re the guests of honor, anyway.”

Your lady. Gods, it was too much, too humiliating.

He was half-convinced Elain would decry the label, inform the man forthrightly that she was not Lucien’s lady and never had been, had never wanted anything to do with him, actually. He braced himself for the inevitable, taking a step back from both of them, calculating how quickly he could dart out the door and off into the night.

He didn’t dare look at Elain until she was right beside him, then found to his immense relief that she did not look furious, or accuse him of spreading lies about them. She seemed content to play along, for the moment, probably realizing that it was far simpler to play into these people’s expectations than to try to awkwardly explain their situation.

So we are to pretend, then. It was what he had always had to do around her, anyway. One more time wouldn’t matter.

Lucien offered his arm to her, and she took it, and they began to walk towards the clearing together.

Chapter Text

Lucien’s thoughts were a mess of buzzing confusion as he guided them towards the central clearing, where strains of music rose up to beckon them. Elain was outwardly calm and gracious, waving and nodding at people as they walked, but she felt tense beside him, uncomfortable as hell.

And of course it made sense, of course he shouldn’t have expected anything different, but the fact that they were back to this, that she was putting on a good show while barely tolerating his presence, and he was forced to act like it didn’t bother him, made his empty ribcage ache strangely.

He tried to examine their predicament logically, take his own stupid feelings out of it. They were in a better position with the humans than he might have supposed, since their presence had been more or less accepted. The people seemed freer in their talk and their movements, their gazes more curious and less suspicious, the mood of the crowd more festive and cheery than at dinner. They were letting their younglings run about freely, Lyra leading the pack with whoops and hollers, and many adults milled about the clearing by the bonfire, drinks in hand. Some of them raised their glasses to him and Elain, calling out greetings, and he headed in their direction, Elain silent beside him.

Not that he was trying to talk to her, either. There was too much to say, and nowhere to begin.

They took steady steps into the clearing, where folk were seated on the benches together. Lucien was relieved to see Briar sat comfortably among them. He’d quite lost track of her during all the goings-on, but hoped she’d been persuasive, convincing the others to give faeries a chance, to send a delegation to the summit. There could be no true resolution without them, and they badly needed the help and protection.

He didn’t like the thought of these people alone in the forest, cut off from the outside world entirely. They needed better food, and housing and medicine, and recourse to authority if there was violence. And even if their lives had been idyllic, what would happen when the children grew older? What kind of opportunities might await Lyra, her brothers, all of these younglings — would they simply grow up to live harsh lives like their parents, regardless of their talents or interests?

“Ah, there you are, finally. Is Fallon coming?” Linnet asked, jolting him out of his gloomy thinking.

Lucien looked into her kind, earnest face, and considered how to approach the subject. Fallon had said she was a healer, but how much did she know about Hybern’s poisons? Did she understand how dire his condition truly was?

“He sent us along ahead of him. He wanted to make his own grand entrance,” he joked, adding discreetly, “He needs my healer, but he won’t listen.”

“Maybe now that you're actually here, now that he’s seen we can have visitors, it’ll turn him round,” Linnet said, tsking softly. Clearly she knew how to manage Fallon’s grumpy moods, but they vexed her nonetheless. “Give him time to think on it.”

“He doesn’t have time,” Lucien insisted, but he knew it was useless. That stubborn mule of a ship captain would just dig in further, the more they tried to convince him. It was a trait he often saw among humans; in fact, it rather reminded him of Feyre, or at least the human girl she’d once been. She’d delighted in doing the opposite of any advice he gave her, to the point where it had become a joke between them.

What would human Feyre have made of this place, these people’s situation? Would she have lived among them, hunted game in these forests?

He turned his thoughts away from those bitter questions. Feyre was not human, any more than he was. Any trace of the mortal girl she had been — fierce, loyal, uncompromising, disdainful of riches, hating fae cruelty — had long been extinguished. She had become all the things she’d once hated, and what was worse, she’d become smug about it.

“Our guests are here! Won’t you drink with us?” a woman asked, and Lucien turned to find that a cup of vaguely wine-smelling liquid was being pressed into his hand.

“Thank you, that would be lovely,” he said, automatically accepting it, recalling how sensitive humans were to slights or rejection. How quickly they could become offended, if he tried to refuse any offer of drink or sustenance, snapping that he must think himself too good for it. Perhaps they had met sneering, superior faeries, or it was their own insecurity talking, but over the decade he’d lived with Jurian and Vassa, he’d learned to stomach all manner of unpleasant flavors in public, in the name of correcting that impression. Humans could forgive him his fae ears, his scarring, his strange clicking eye, even his having magic, but they despised a snob above anything.

Lucien saw that many eyes were upon him, so he made sure to take a vigorous gulp, schooling his reaction so that he didn’t wince at the sour blandness of the concoction, then clinked his cup against the nearest fellow’s. “May all your landfalls be expected,” he declared, recalling the toasts they’d made during wartime, “and may the wind be at your backs. To our health, and absent friends.”

The folk nodded, the war veterans among them murmuring in approval or joining in with the traditional toast, and they all tipped their drinks back.

“You missed a part,” the fellow by Lucien scolded him, and raised his own glass. “To our sweethearts and wives!” He gave the crowd an exaggerated wink. “May they never meet!”

A few of the lads chuckled, and echoed the refrain, and nudged each other or made a big show of drinking to that, while the women hmphed, or rolled their eyes in exasperation.

Lucien wanted to cringe away in embarrassment, especially with Elain standing right next to him. He’d never had a sweetheart while mated to her, not ever.

To his relief, Elain seemed to be engrossed in her own conversation, not paying mind to the silly jokes and innuendo of the drinkers. She was asking the names of the folk who approached her, giving them smiles and compliments, and he marveled at how well she was able to muster up words that would endear them to her, and put them at ease. She seemed to know instinctively how to soothe their anxieties, how to draw them out and get them talking, and more importantly to his way of thinking, she actually seemed to care. 

That was a most important difference, what set Elain apart from her sisters. Feyre and Nesta were formidable females, fierce and uncompromising, who could turn people’s heads, command their attention. And he’d heard from Eris that Nesta could be persuasive, that she could give speeches that roused or intimidated, engage in repartee as witty as any courtier. But neither sister really cared about others, other than their chosen friends and family, and that would always put people off from them.

But Elain did care, and what was even better, she cared about everyone. She had a beautiful loving heart, rare and precious among faeries and humans. She treated everyone with respect and friendly concern, from lesser fae servants to the village’s elders and younglings, to High Lords and dignitaries.

She was next to him now, perched on his arm like a proper courtier, engaging in a stream of greetings and little conversations. Touching him, by the Cauldron. He could barely make his mouth open and words come out, much less anything sensical, when his stupid senses were honed in on her fingertips tingling against his skin, and her lavender scent, and a stray brush of her golden curls on his shirtsleeve, and —

Get it together, you stupid idiot.

Elain Archeron might have a beautiful heart, but there would never be room in it for him, and he’d do well to remember it.

“—how strange, I’ve heard of making dyes from plants, like dyer’s woad or indigo, but this pretty red is from bugs? Fascinating,” Elain was saying, fingering the edge of a brightly striped shawl that an elderly woman was showing her. “So that’s why clothes here are such lovely colors.”

The villagers’ clothes were rough and scratchy, and hardly appropriate for the wet cooler weather of the high mountains, but leave it to Elain to find the one nice thing to say about them. He made a note that they ought to follow up later on the subject, that the humans might be persuaded to trade their dyes for more finely worked cloth, or at least the raw fiber, and that leather for shoes would not go amiss, either. Perhaps he could ask Elain to take inventory, to make a list of commodities they needed, and they could get it on the agenda at the conference?

“That’s womenfolk for you,” a man snickered, and Lucien turned his attention back to his own conversation. “Always obsessed with appearances.”

“Well, someone’s got to be decent to look at, and it’s not going to be us,” Lucien quipped, mindful to include himself in the insult, and clinking the man’s cup with his own for good measure. But the folk around him registered the jab and laughed at it, and he couldn’t help but grin as the man grumbled something unintelligible and then slunk away.

Lucien was about to take another sip of his own drink when he was slammed into, rather forcefully, by a whooping, screeching Lyra, aided by a cheering crowd of other younglings,. “There he is, get him!”

His stupid sandal slipped on the muddy ground, making him pitch backward from the force of them. He laughed, landing hard, as the children swarmed him.

“Catch him, he’s a dragon!” a boy hollered in Lucien’s ear, leaping onto his back, a skinny arm squeezed against his throat. The children all squealed, their grubby little hands tugging at his shirtsleeves and loose strands of his hair, and it was all Lucien could do to endure their pinching fingers and little kicks and shrieking voices, chortling heartily all the while.

“No, help, you’ve got me,” Lucien called out, then patted the arm that was tight around his neck. “Even dragons need to breathe, my friend.” The boy slid off his back and came around to face him, and he was surprised then to see that it was Castor, Lyra’s brother, the same boy who’d attacked him earlier.

If only it were always so easy to win people’s trust. Perhaps the village’s younglings would be their ambassadors, if the adults were too distrustful or set in their ways. If he accomplished one thing among these humans, let it be teaching their children that not all fae were wicked.

He shoved up to his feet, hoisting Lyra up with him so that she wouldn’t slip downwards, then chuckled as the younglings surged around him again, grabbing onto his limbs. He took exaggerated steps, feigning meager attempts to escape from their clutches, careful actually not to step on any fingers, then yelped as a set of sharp teeth sank into his finger.

“I think you’re actually the dragon,” he chuckled, reaching down and plucking the little naughty creature before actual blood was drawn, recognizing the toddler he’d noticed at dinner. The imp cackled, flailing his arms and roaring in very proper dragon-fashion, if a bit more high pitched, and all of the children laughed at it. “That’s very good,” Lucien said, “you’re quite fierce, aren’t you?”

A thin, nervous woman rushed towards the group, flailing her arms worriedly. “Riordan!”

The boy twisted towards his mother, and Lucien handed him off, trying not to cringe as he watched the frightened mother cradling her son. “How many times has Mommy told you, never run away like that,” she scolded him, relieved tears flowing down her cheeks, even while she glared suspiciously at Lucien.

It stung, but she was only being sensible. Why shouldn’t she be suspicious? He’d caused a ruckus amongst the little ones, egged on their wildness. For all the villagefolk knew, he had come to lure children to steal away for infertile fae women. He’d encountered that belief in towns on the Continent, along with the one that sickly children were changelings, faerie substitutes exchanged with stolen human counterparts. But these folk had seemed more down-to-earth, sensible, than to believe those more sensational rumors. Perhaps it was simpler — that raising a child under these conditions was difficult, and they didn’t need an outsider riling up trouble.

But little Riordan seemed oblivious to his mother’s distress, for he gave his mother a huge toothy smile, then pointed at Lucien. “Dragon!”

The woman gasped, “What?”

“He said something! He can talk!” Lyra crowed. “Say it again, Dannie!”

“Dragon,” Riordan declared, his chubby face bright with pride at his achievement.

Lucien breathed a silent sigh of relief as Elain came forward, smiling with a serene confidence. “What a smart little boy you are, you caught the dragon,” she exclaimed to the child, in a lovely singsong that told Lucien she’d spent much time among children, and knew just how to engage and encourage them. What a wonderful mother she would be. “I think that calls for a special dance, doesn’t it?”

The children cheered, and Lyra immediately began ordering them all about, directing them to make a circle and tugging him towards the middle of it. He followed, not knowing whether he was glad of a reprieve from the awkwardness with Elain, or sorrowful at the loss of her presence.

That realization made him even more nervous, for he couldn’t afford to get his heart all twisted up again, especially now with so much at stake. You’re just on a mission, don’t get distracted.

Lyra tugged impatiently on his wrist. “Come on, the music’s starting.”

“Right. Of course. Where are my manners,” he said, cocking his head to listen for the first few notes of the song, which would signal what sort of dance they were meant to be doing. To his relief, it was a rendition of a country reel he’d heard before, though the wooden flutes made it sound haunting, almost lyrical.

He bowed to his partner, in proper fashion, then stepped forward and back, chuckling as Lyra spun in exuberant circles.

“I don’t suppose you’ve had proper lessons,” he commented, catching her hands and steadying her before she got dizzy. She stumbled a little, caught off guard, then righted herself, a joyous wild gleam in her eyes. How often did the humans have these little parties, let themselves enjoy real entertainment?

Folks around them were clapping along, a few singing snatches of the refrain, but Lucien grinned down at his whirling dervish of a partner. “The steps are really quite simple, once you get the hang of them. Here, I’ll show you.”

He beckoned her to step onto his feet, choosing to ignore the sodden dirt clinging to her bare toes. He’d just been tumbled into the mud, what did a little more dirt matter? “The basic rule is to go in a square, see? Step forward, then back…”

Lyra giggled and tugged on his hands, keeping her balance as he stepped through the moves of the dance. “This is easy!” she declared.

“Well, it’s not meant to be difficult, it’s for fun, after all,” he agreed.

He glanced past her, past all of the festivities, to where Elain was still standing with Riordan’s mother. They had moved further away, giving themselves privacy, and were talking earnestly together. Elain was leaning in, gently holding the woman’s shoulders, like she was comforting someone in deep distress. The woman seemed to be confiding in Elain, pouring out her troubled heart, and it was both a comfort and a torment to see it.

Then he looked down, to the top of Lyra’s straggly blond head, and he saw that she was staring down at their feet, as though really trying to learn the steps. Here I am, teaching a human girl her own people’s dances. It made him profoundly sad to think on it, that he’d had more exposure to human culture than she had.

The music was rising to its crescendo, and Lucien strove to complete the last steps in time to it. He lifted Lyra up, setting her back on her own patch of ground, so that he could bow to her to end the dance properly, but she promptly leaped forward and jumped onto his feet again, exclaiming, “Another song’s starting!”

The musicians were obliging, the drummers tapping out what sounded like a soldier’s march set to a quadrille pattern, and he grinned down at his enthusiastic little partner, warning, “This one’s going to be quite a bit faster. I wouldn’t want you to slide off, and get your toes stepped on.”

“You couldn’t step on my toes, I’m too fast,” Lyra said determinedly.

She was quick, but she had human reflexes. Lucien chose not to say so, instead answering, “Then get ready for some fancy footwork.”

He looked up at the shining faces of the crowd, seeing that many more of the folk had gathered around them. A few had even drifted into the circle, meaning to join in with the dancing, and his heart swelled along with the sounds of the flute as the melody picked up, and they started moving, faster and faster.

Lyra squawked, barely hanging on to him, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at her indignant expression. “I did warn you.”

When she pouted, he took pity on her, and lifted her up off his feet before she really did get trampled. He looked all around, meaning to bring her to her mother, or her older brothers, but she draped her arms and legs around him, then laid her head down on his shoulder.

He chuckled, hoisting her up higher. “Getting past your bedtime?”

“Papa lets me stay up late,” Lyra’s little voice answered, sounding sleepy and a bit forlorn.

Lucien’s heart hurt for her. “You miss him very much, don’t you.”

Lyra pulled herself more tightly around him in answer.

The song became a distant, ringing echo in his mind as he bent his head to reassure her. “I’m going to do whatever I can. I promise you that.”

She nodded against his collarbone, her stubborn exuberance giving way to exhaustion, and he was relieved when the dance ended and he could cross through the clearing to hand her off to her waiting mother, who had been watching them with a pained expression. Lyra gave a little sob of complaint when he endeavored to move her, but then stretched out her arms to her mother, clinging on fervently.

The woman sighed in fond exasperation, cradling her daughter. “I didn’t thank you earlier. For finding her.”

Don’t thank me, I’m why she was lost in the first place. But Lucien inclined his head respectfully, unwilling to disagree with her.

“I know Lyra can be troublesome,” Lyra’s mother was continuing. “You’re more patient with her than most would be.”

“She reminds me of a girl I once knew,” Lucien said wistfully, carefully not looking around the clearing, to see where that girl’s sister might have gotten to. “A fierce human girl who caused plenty of trouble. But the right kind of trouble, if you understand me.”

The woman smiled uncertainly. “I think I do.”

Lucien fervently hoped that Lyra, and all her young friends, could live out their days in peace, untroubled by the sort of cruel realities that the Archeron sisters had had to face in their younger years. There was no reason why these people should not be prosperous, well fed and happy, safe within Tarquin’s borders or wherever they chose to live in Prythian. The fact that they were here, stashed secretly away in the mountains, fearful and scrambling, greatly bothered him.

“I’d like to ask a few questions, but now may not be the time,” Lucien said, seeing that Lyra was half-asleep but still listening, and that they were far from alone in the clearing. The drums were still pounding behind them, the flutes still trilling their half-mournful, half-joyful melodies, and the people were lining up for the next dance. “But tomorrow?”

Lyra’s mother nodded, then stepped back, and Lucien watched her go, trying to feel hopeful and not worried. Then he turned around and purposefully walked back towards the dancers, mindful that he had to appear sociable and friendly, or they might feel threatened. He scanned the crowd, smiling with relief when a familiar face beckoned to him.

“Very different from last night’s ball,” Briar remarked, extending her hand to invite him to dance with her. He took up the position across from her in line, then bowed to her as the next song started.

“Quite so. But this has its charms, despite a distinct lack of centerpieces,” Lucien said. Had that truly been only last night? He felt like he’d lived a whole lifetime of strangeness since then.

“You don’t think they’re worried, do you?” she asked, stepping around him in time to the rhythm.

“You know Tamlin, of course he’ll be worried. Especially with everything else going on,” Lucien said, wincing at that thought. This was exactly the sort of situation that would rile his friend up, all the more so because Lucien was unable to contact anyone while inside the village’s border of protection. But the last thing he needed was an anxious High Lord, or several, showing up to scare the shit out of these people.

Briar nodded, biting her lip, and he took his turn stepping around her this time. As he did so, he caught sight of Elain. She was talking with Fallon, which gladdened him — the old fellow had been close friends with her father, so it felt only right that they would connect properly. Maybe she could talk sense into the stubborn bastard, convince him to try his luck with a fae healer. Elain could convince anyone of anything, he thought admiringly.

“And you? How are you holding up?” Briar asked him.

“Me?” He took her hands and they twirled gently. It made a pretty picture, with the other couples, something he’d always found charming about human dances. They weren’t just about the dancing couples, but involved the cooperation of everyone.

“You know what I mean. Being here with Elain — it must be awkward.”

Lucien shrugged, and twirled her again. “Everything with Elain is awkward. Always has been. Why should now be any different?”

“Lucien. This is different, and you know it,” Briar chided him gently.

His shoulders sagged a little. “What I feel about all this can wait until we’re back at the palace. What matters now is convincing these people that they ought to end their isolation.”

“I think we’re nearly there,” Briar said hopefully. “I think they’re warming up to the idea.”

As though to prove her point, a young woman came up beside them, beaming at Lucien. “You dance so well, can I cut in?”

Briar smiled brightly at the interloper. “Why, of course. Enjoy the dance.”

Lucien gritted his teeth — interrupting mid-dance was considered rude among humans, as much of an intrusion as his own people would think it. But he was here to make friends and change minds, so he followed Briar’s lead, calmly accepting the disruption.

His new partner giggled at the first brush of their hands as they moved through the steps. “I never thought one of the fae would know our dances.”

“When you’ve lived in the human lands for a decade, you pick up a thing or two,” Lucien said modestly. He noted how she kicked her heels up in the Continental style, then took in her features, and guessed, “Are you Scythian?”

Her eyes widened in pleased surprise. “Oh! How’d you know that?”

“Your queen and I are somewhat familiar,” he said, which was a preposterous understatement, but he couldn’t risk Vassa’s reputation among her people by revealing exactly how familiar they were.

“Well! How shocking,” she declared, spinning around a little too quickly, then laughing breathlessly when he reached out and caught her. “You’re so strong!”

Lucien didn’t dignify that with an answer, but spun her out again, hoping the dance would wrap up soon. The music had gotten slow, almost ponderous, more suitable for intimate partners than the lively frolics that had come before. When he looked over at Elain again, she had helped Fallon up to his unsteady feet, and was dancing around him in graceful, gentle fashion. He couldn't help but stare, for her serene enjoyment of the music was written all over her lovely features, and the way she effortlessly weaved herself around her chosen partner, allowing him the dignity of dancing with her while making adjustments for his ailments, almost took Lucien's breath away.

But then his own dance partner flung herself back towards him, grabbing onto his shoulders as though steadying herself again, and Lucien's attention was jolted away. “Is it true what they say about faerie males,” the woman purred in his ear, her lips far too close to his skin for comfort.

“That depends on what they say, I suppose,” he said diplomatically, ignoring the innuendo, and took a hasty step back as the song ended, bowing formally to her as decorum required. “It has been a pleasure, Miss —?”

“Nora. Just Nora,” she said, holding out her hands to him again. “Oh, I think they’re going to do a waltz next. How delightful!”

“Indeed, well, I’ve got to check on a few things,” he stammered, beginning to turn away, move out of the clearing before the next song began.

“Surely you can spare a little more time, we never get visitors, and you’re the best dancer,” she pouted, her fingers stealing up his arm towards his shoulder. “Don’t you like waltzes?”

Lucien clasped his hands together nervously behind his back, ensuring that he wouldn't accidentally touch her. He didn’t want to cause a scene by refusing her, but he didn't want to encourage her forwardness towards him, either. She was taking a few too many liberties, not unlike a certain other female, whose flirting and pestering he’d tried to dismiss, until she’d well and truly cornered him. And while he didn’t know Nora from anyone, and couldn’t assume she would be like that priestess, the mere reminder was turning his stomach.

“Thank you. But I’m engaged for the next dance,” he said firmly, then strode away. There was an opening in the men’s line, and he took it, staring purposefully at the empty space on the other side.

Then there came a flash of movement, almost too quick for him to process, and there was Elain, standing in front of him.

He drew up short, his heart beating frantically, eyebrows shooting up in surprise, waiting for her to recoil from him. She wasn’t actually going to dance with him, was she? Surely that was out of the question. Dancing required eye contact, and touching, and oh gods, when was the last time he’d let himself imagine that?

It had felt like unforgivable sacrilege, to fantasize about dancing with Elain Archeron or anything else involved with it, when she’d made it so clear that she hated the sight of him. His feelings for her were a liability, an embarrassment, a way for his enemies to manipulate him. And when she’d cut their bond off suddenly, she couldn’t have made it clearer how much she wanted to be rid of him.

But she saw him there, and stood her ground. She nodded at him, as though saying yes to his half-formed, unspoken question. 

Then the song swelled, the melody rising along with the strangely pounding beat of his heart, and a new dance began.

Chapter Text

It was torture to look at her, but worse torture to look away.

This, this was what he’d never dared picture — Elain Archeron, her soft loose curls gleaming in the firelight, a gentle smile curving her full lips upwards, her sparkling eyes fixed on him, reaching out her hand. Waiting. Expectant.

Of course we’ll dance, her gesture declared. As if there’d never been any question.

As if she hadn’t fled from the very sight of him, for years on end. As if she hadn’t snapped the bond with no warning.

This was so simple an act, so mundane and ordinary — people danced, their bodies pressed together, skin brushing skin as they moved to the rhythm. It didn’t have to mean they were lovers, or friends, even. A dance could be shared by acquaintances or strangers, a token of goodwill, a moment’s amusement. It didn’t have to mean anything.

Just everything he’d ever wanted, and could never have, and damn his stupid heart for trying.

Lucien swallowed down his nerves, his sour memories, his old heartaches and sorrows, and reached out his own hand to grasp hers. He half expected her to come to her senses, wrench herself away, run from him or even from the gathering, but she pressed her palm flat to his, tightening her fingers, and he could barely contain the wave of relief that rippled through him. Relief, and nothing more — to feel other feelings would be dangerous.

He forced himself to step towards her, to brace a hand on her waist as waltzes required. He was only carrying out the proper movements, not actually trying to touch her. Not holding her close. Not savoring her gentle warmth, her lovely scent of honey and flowers, or the alluring curve of her hip, especially not that. He was not looking at her body at all.

He was just dancing, Cauldron damn it.

The music swelled, the rhythm of the waltz swirling around them, and Lucien’s legs moved of their own accord, remembering the movements and positions. That was well, for he was hopelessly confused and distracted, and couldn’t have remembered his own birthday if he’d been quizzed on the subject. All rational thoughts had flown far, far away, replaced with a dizzying, exhilarated terror.

I’m touching her. I’m touching her.

Lucien moved, left-right-together, right-left-together, and Elain moved with him. Gracefully, effortlessly, like they’d done this a million times before. Like moving together was easy and natural. He was grateful that the village’s wards suppressed magic, for his hand felt like it would burn up where it held her waist, and he would have feared to set her dress ablaze, or combust himself into firelight and ashes.

If Elain noticed at all the effect she was having, she was too consummate a diplomat to show it. Her heart-shaped face was lit up in the firelight, turned up towards him, her lips slightly parted and curved upwards in amusement. Her eyes were bright and sparkling, her cheeks pink with healthy exertion, so sweet, so artlessly earnest and painfully lovely, that he was almost forced to look away.

That would be the proper thing to do, to maintain some semblance of decorum between them, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. This would be the one time they danced together, the only possible fulfillment of the hope he’d once nurtured, and he couldn’t help but be a little greedy. Just this once, he could savor her soft curves pressed close to him, her sweet scent trailing through the air, her little gasp of joyful surprise when the music sped up and he dared to twirl her.

He would collect these moments to cherish forever, or to torture himself with for all time afterwards. He wasn’t sure which, and it didn’t matter, not where Elain Archeron was concerned. There was no world in which he could be indifferent. Despite what he’d tried to tell himself, despite his best efforts to forget her, she would never be just any female, indistinct among the crowd of all others. Even if he hadn’t known her from anyone, he would have been lost the moment he saw her dancing with Fallon, or joining the hands of the squabbling siblings, or stirring the stew-pot along with the cooks like she wasn’t the sister of a High Lady.

Lucien knew the end of the dance was approaching, that the melody had ended its final chorus, and he braced himself for the moment she would pull away and distance would stretch out again between them. He ought to say something now, in this moment, to acknowledge the boundary they both knew lay between them, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He would have to harden his heart against it, against her, and he dreaded it. That was what his friends would counsel, what his family would insist on as policy. Elain had a husband, and sisters and family, and he was no one and nothing to her. And he could never be something, not after all this time, not even a friend. Not with Feyre as her sister, and Rhys as Feyre’s mate, and all of the selfish wickedness that they stood for.

She had broken the bond, but they had taken advantage of it, of him, when it existed. For that, he could almost be grateful that she’d set him free. Would the Consortium exist, if she hadn’t done it? Would they even be holding this conference at all?

He would have forgiven her everything outright, if only she’d thought to warn him, give him a moment to steel himself for the cleaving. If only she’d had the slightest consideration for his well-being, if not as the one who had been his mate, then as a decent and gentle person. Why had she thought him so uniquely terrible that he was the only one not worth any kindness, when she was so caring and considerate with all others?

It was a sour, stomach-clenching recollection, and he shoved it down deep where it couldn’t disturb him. He could contemplate the mysteries of his unworthiness, or Elain’s cruelty, in the cold light of the morning. Tonight, under the stars, the music was up, and the people were laughing, and Elain’s slender hand was on his shoulder.

Just a few more moments. Then he would let her go, release her into the evening, and never speak of this to anyone. He would bury tonight in his heart, sacred and secret, and spend the rest of the conference in stoic detachment.

The song raced on to its conclusion, and Elain, flushed and laughing, spun in a circle, her long hair fanning out around her. He watched her, struck by how carefree and joyous she was, how unlike the shrinking ghostly presence she’d been before. He’d never seen her laugh with abandon, fully let herself go in the moment, and this glimpse of the real Elain almost left him breathless.

Then Elain flung her arms out, as though trying to regain her balance, or lose it further, and Lucien caught her, his own laugh escaping him.

Oh gods, I’m holding her.

She was far too close, their breaths almost mingling, and he self-consciously straightened, setting her back on her feet, and forcing himself to step back from her, his hands curling up as the feeling of her kept tingling through them.

“Well!” Elain exclaimed, looking up at him, her deep brown eyes bright with merriment, “I haven’t danced like that in ages.”

“Haven’t you?” he asked, despite his resolve to keep a safe distance, for she’d spoken to him, and of course he would answer. It would only be rude to do otherwise. “Doesn’t your court hold balls and revels?”

Lucien knew quite well how the Night Court carried on, what went on in Velaris’s nightclubs and taverns, not that Elain probably frequented those places. And he had witnessed what passed for dancing at the Hewn City, and the thought of Elain surrounded by that made him want to vomit. It was too close to picturing her Under the Mountain, and even if Feyre had found a way to tolerate it, he could never.

Elain bit her full bottom lip. “There’s the party on Starfall, I suppose. And the Solstice Ball at the Hewn City, but that’s more Nesta’s thing. She performs all the Night Court dances so wonderfully.”

Lucien asked, “Could the court musicians not play your favorite songs, also? Nesta could surely teach your dances to others.”

Elain’s brows rose, as though she had not considered this idea before, but then she shook her head. “I don’t suppose it’s very important. We are not human now, anyway.”

Lucien nearly stumbled backwards in surprise, to hear her put it so baldly. She’d fought tooth and nail to stay human, when he’d first known her. What had happened over the last decade? Had she retained nothing of her human culture and interests?

“These people would beg to differ,” he said, gesturing to the villagefolk all around them, who were laughing, and raising their cups to each other, and fondly reminiscing about old times back home. “I think they would find it important indeed. Knowing where you come from, even if you can never go back there, is a way to remember who you are.”

Lucien saw the confusion in her eyes, and hastily looked down, playing absently with the bandages on his wounded hand. He was lecturing her, and it was ridiculous. And he couldn’t exactly take her to task for not upholding her human heritage, when he hadn’t even known he had a Day Court family until last night. He couldn’t have named five of his relatives on his father’s side, or a single Day Court song or tradition that wasn’t already known to every stranger.

Then Elain’s slender hand reached out, and clasped his bandaged one gently. “Another song is starting,” Elain said, seemingly oblivious to his confusion that she’d taken his hand, on purpose. “Shall we join in?”

Another song was indeed getting going, a lively tune with much drumming and clapping, and it took Lucien a moment to recognize it as a popular dance on the Continent. It was an energetic, exuberant dance, in which the male would lift up the female, hands on her waist, knee under her legs, and twirl her and put her down again. It was entirely innocent, of course, just part of the dance, but some humans still found it scandalous and improper. He couldn’t imagine what Elain’s sisters, or husband, might say about it.

He raised his eyes to hers in question. “Have you ever danced the Volta before?”

Elain’s cheeks flushed, her eyes lowering, and he worried he’d offended her, until she said, “I — have seen it done, and I know the steps from my lessons, but no. No, I haven’t danced it, personally.”

Of course. She’d not realized which dance it was, and was now reconsidering. Of course she wouldn’t want Lucien lifting her. He was about to give her an out, to suggest that they go find a drink or give themselves a rest from exertion, when she added, in a softer voice, “The slimmer girls got picked for the Volta, it’s easier to lift them up, after all. I probably wouldn’t like it much, anyway.”

Oh. He’d utterly mistaken the cause of her distress, and now that he understood, a determined anger burned in his belly. “I’d forgotten how weak some human men are.” And blind, he thought, though he didn’t dare say that part openly. She had to know how beautiful he found her, but wouldn't appreciate him harping on it. She had given him this much leeway, no need to tempt fate by taking things too far.

His hand tightened around hers, before she could turn from the dancing, and he blurted, “You could try it once, before you decide you don't like it.”

Her lips parted in seeming surprise, and then she nodded, gripping his hand in return. And they fell into place next to each other, nodding to the musicians and the other couples.

Lucien’s heart was strangely light as the pipes began the melody, as the dance flooded into him, kicking his legs, doing the little jumps and skips as required. He could feel Elain next to him, doing the same, her brows drawn down adorably in concentration. “It’s been some time since I learned,” she said breathlessly.

“You learned well,” he said, though truly, he hadn’t noticed one way or another. Everything she could do was pleasing and lovely — it didn’t matter whether she trod on his feet, or yanked at his clothing to catch up her balance. She was dancing with him, and that was all that mattered.

But he could see that she was feeling out of her depth, so he added, “What did my combat instructors always say? What the mind forgets, the body remembers.”

He released her hand so that he could slide his arm around her waist, preparing to lift her in time to the music. For just a moment, he thought Elain stumbled, that her focus had gone somewhere inside her, but then she was smiling up at him again, fully present, arms stretched out eagerly.

At the same instant, the drums kicked up into the main chorus, and he forced his mind to go blank so that he would not dwell on what he was doing. He wrapped his hands around her, grasping her middle, extending his arms to lift her up, and then twisted, lowering her to her feet again.

Elain let out a startled giggle, as though she hadn’t quite expected it to happen, her hands gripping his shoulders so tightly that her nails were pressing into his skin. “All right?” he asked, and she nodded, her face relaxing into a lovely enjoyment that he would have given anything to see more and more of.

Then he was lifting her back up, swinging her around again, and a third and a fourth time, along with the music. He took a bit of liberty this last time, twirling more than strictly necessary, spinning them both in a wide circle, and Elain’s giggling became a full-on peal of laughter.

The crowd around them whooped and clapped, calling out encouragements, what a fine lady and there’s a stout fellow, and Lucien set her back down, his blood pounding, and not from the exertions of the movements.

“You had combat instructors?” Elain asked, falling back into the rhythm of the steps with him, her movements more sure and confident now. “Have you had to do much fighting?”

“Sometimes,” he said, turning fully towards her. “In the war, and for Tamlin, when monsters would prowl through his forests. And — a few other times.” He couldn’t bring himself to mention Feyre and that ridiculous chase through Autumn, for it nudged the topic too close to things that he didn’t want to think about, how Feyre had given him the silent treatment, how he’d again been forced to fight his brothers, how Azriel had been the one to carry him — to safety and to Elain, he’d thought, only to find that he couldn’t have either.

Elain was regarding him thoughtfully, even as she gracefully did her part of the dance. “I wish such things weren’t necessary.”

“So do I.” He swallowed hard, trying to focus on how her lovely arms swayed, how her hair framed her sweet face as she did the dance’s little jumps and skips, and not on the fact that she’d married a warrior, despite the fact that she hated violence. Why ruin the night for both of them?

“But now we’re at peace, aren’t we? Things are better,” Elain commented hopefully, biting her lip as the music swelled, indicating that he was about to lift her and swing her.

Lucien hoisted her up, grinning broadly as she laughed with abandon. Gods, to hear her let loose like that — it was glorious. “Things are better,” he said, setting her down just for a moment, then swinging her around for a second time, and a third, and a fourth, then settled her down on the grass, reluctantly pulling his arm back from where it had been braced against her. “And I hope they stay that way.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” she asked, peering up at him with those wide eyes that saw far too much. “Are you worried about this rebellion?”

“There’s always something. This time it’s rebellion. Next time it could be Hybern. Or other fae kingdoms, or the mortal queens, or overambitious High Lords causing trouble,” he said, wondering if she would take that as a provocation, thinking that he was referring to Rhys and Feyre. Maybe he was, and he needed to hear her answer — that she knew they were over-powerful, and dangerous, that she understood whose court she resided in, who her husband worked for.

But Elain just furrowed her brow, saying nothing, and he felt obliged to add, “I think we discovered the rebellion in time. What I don’t understand is who’s really behind it, or what their true intentions are.”

She was studying him seriously, far too seriously for the raucous fun they were meant to be having, so he shook his head and said, “That’s work for tomorrow. Tonight is for establishing goodwill, and dancing.”

Elain’s eyes sparkled as the dance concluded. “I'd say mission accomplished, then.”

The other folk were coming forward, the men slapping Lucien on the back, the women patting Elain’s shoulder, and he turned to her with a roguish grin. “So you’re content to sit out the next one, then?”

She put her hands on her hips, affecting a mock pout. “Certainly not! Unless you’re getting tired?”

Lucien chuckled darkly, almost blurting I could go all night, or something equally naughty. Instead, he simply took her hand, and they joined in the big circle with all the other revelers, as the music again began.

Chapter Text

Lucien’s eyes blinked painstakingly open, taking in the first timid rays of the dawn. He swiped a hand across his face, gazing about the darkened room in confusion, then sighing as details came into focus.

Right. The human village.

He groaned, stretching out gingerly in a vain attempt to ease his aching back and hips. He had spent the night sprawled out on hard floorboards and pallets of straw, with a rolled-up rough woven mat for a pillow, and he’d slept about as well as he had expected, which was to say almost not at all.

But it wasn’t the rough wood or the scratchy bedding that had kept him from slumber. He had managed sleep in far more inhospitable places, from Autumn caves to the holds of Leith’s war-vessels, dank cramped inns on his travels, and his garishly furnished room Under the Mountain, which was by far the worst place of all.

And it wasn’t the abject physical state of him either, though he was filthy and disheveled, and his hair a tumbled mess, and he desperately needed a bath and fresh clothing. It had been almost the opposite — that his body felt too good, too euphoric, buzzing all over with the beat of the drums, and the laughing and camaraderie, and Elain’s vivacious presence beside him. How could he ever hope to sleep again, after that?

They’d stayed at the revels well into the small hours, until the bonfire was nothing but a few glowing embers. They’d danced with the humans, interweaving with them in loops and patterns, taking turns swinging each other’s partners, and then ending up in a giant circle for the group dance that concluded every human ball.

Lucien had kept waiting for Elain to grow tired, or to suddenly remember that it was him she was dancing with and bow out abruptly, but Elain had gotten only more exuberant as the night had gone on, her movements freer and more expressive, and he’d been obliged to help her unlace her boots and toss the offending footwear to the side, halfway through, so that she wouldn’t wake up this morning with blisters.

They’d all finally gathered themselves up and dispersed, and he’d walked Elain to Linnet and Fallon’s cottage, awkwardly holding out her boots between them as she lingered in the doorway.

“Aren’t you going to come in?” she’d asked him. “Where are you sleeping?”

Mother above, he’d almost lost it at that question. He’d known she hadn’t meant anything by it, that she was merely wondering where he had lodging, but it was a little too close to sounding inviting for his stupid mind not to react to it.

But he’d managed, in a more or less steady voice, “Lyra’s already prepared me a bed. You saw it.”

Elain’s pretty face had scrunched up in confusion, as she plucked the boots from his outstretched hands. “You’re going to sleep in a work-shed? On a pile of straw? Surely you have other options.”

“I’m going to be where I’m expected,” he’d replied, utterly flummoxed by this sudden concern for his welfare, and unwilling to delve too deeply into what it all meant, “so Lyra doesn’t think I broke our agreement.”

And indeed, he’d been lying awake in the dark, half-delirious, replaying the dancing and all that led up to it, his body tingly and feverish with foolish happiness, when Lyra had come stumbling in, teary and disoriented from a nightmare, and had curled up on the straw next to him. She’d kicked him a few times in the side as she’d tossed and turned, but then had fallen into a deep slumber, while Lucien had lain awake for long after.

Then his thoughts and dreams had mingled, so that he no longer knew where memory ended and fantasy began. He’d conjured Elain in his mind, now talking, now dancing, her pale lovely face shining in the firelight, and the sweet way she’d laughed and twirled about to the music. He’d never seen her so free, so bold with enjoyment, and if he’d been younger and stupider, he might have hoped for more nights just like this one, more chances to get to know this side of her.

But he was not young anymore, and if he was still stupid, he was smart enough to know it. He couldn’t assume that anything would change between them, just because she’d gotten swept up in the moment. She could think better of it in the light of the morning, shrug off the dancing as a failure of judgment. She might not want to see him at all, or act familiar, even less so now that they’d danced together.

No, it was better to expect nothing, or worse. Less painful that way.

Next to him, Lyra stirred, whimpering softly and then flopping over, then poking at his arm with a finger. “Wake up, sleepybones,” she demanded.

“Who’s a sleepybones?” Lucien grinned, propping himself up on his elbows so he could get a better look at her. She was mussed from sleep, lines imprinted into one cheek from where she had lain it against the fabric of her sleeve, and her hair was sticking up in every possible direction, bits of straw peeking out from it.

He bit back a chuckle, and asked, “Does your mother know you’re in here?” Don't want a repeat of yesterday’s panic.

Lyra’s mouth drew down into a pout. “I always used to come out here, when I couldn’t sleep, and Papa would be late in his workshop.”

“Ah.” What could he say to that? His own experience growing up had been so much the opposite that he used to slink away to hide from his supposed father, rather than deliberately go to find him.

And he was never even your father anyway. The injustice of it burned sour in his stomach.

He cleared his throat, focusing back on Lyra. “I made some inquiries last night, and I have some ideas on what to do next. Let’s go find a morning meal, and then I’ll get started.”

Lyra hopped down off the pallet of straw, then tugged on his arm when he moved more sluggishly. “First I want a dragon ride.”

“Dragons need breakfast, or they get grumpy,” Lucien said, then oofed softly as she ran around and catapulted onto his back, yanking on strands of his loose hair like she was driving a horse to a gallop. “We have to work on your riding technique,” he grumbled, but staggered up to a standing position, hoisting her up a little higher, then ducking down as he reached the doorway. Lyra flattened herself against his back as he angled them both under it, and then they were out on the path towards the clearing.

Lyra pointed up ahead, but Lucien had already caught the scent of cooking breakfast, and he headed in that general direction. Steam was rising into the air, and he could hear the sounds of bustling activity, clatterings of pails and merry chatter, and a more distant thwack of an axe slicing wood for the fire.

A few moments later, they were accosted by Altair, clutching a fistful of wilting green plants in each hand, glaring up at them in disapproval. “Lyra! Where’ve you been hiding? Castor and me’ve been working for ages.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” Lyra scoffed. “And you never like what I harvest, anyway.”

“That’s because you pick all the stuff we can’t eat, and it just makes more work to sort through it,” Altair shot back.

“Is there work to be done? I can help,” Lucien interrupted cheerfully.

The older boy shook his head. “Not in the fields. Maybe with the firewood?” He beckoned to Lyra. “Now come on, or we’ll both get a scolding.”

Lucien angled his head back to look at Lyra, who was sticking out her tongue petulantly at her brother. “Everyone’s counting on us. We’d better listen to him.”

“Fine,” she huffed, “it’s just, he’s so bossy.”

Takes one to know one, he almost joked, but then he saw her pinched, irritated expression. “Older brothers have it hard,” he said. “Sometimes they’re harsh, or impatient. But they’re doing it because they care about us, even if they don’t always show it. And they get blamed, or blame themselves, when we get into trouble.” He bent down so that she could scamper off his back, then stood back up and brushed his clothes off where her feet had left dirt-prints. “Speaking of which, I’ve got to send my bossy older brother a message today, or he’ll be very cross with me for disappearing.”

Altair was grabbing for Lyra’s hand, ready to tug her away, but he now looked interested. “Are you a kid, too? You look like a grownup.”

Lucien laughed at that. “Faerie ages can be deceiving. To some of my kind, I seem young. Even little.” He hated when people called him that, more for the dismissive intent behind it. Rhys and his ilk, especially, had some nerve, when their High Lady was hundreds of years younger than Lucien. He shrugged that off, saying glibly, “But that’s what happens when your race lives for centuries.”

“I wish I could live for centuries,” Lyra said dreamily.

“No, you don’t,” Altair snapped, all of his impatience returning. He craned his neck down the path he’d just come from, as though worried that trouble was approaching. “Now come on, everyone’s waiting.”

But Lyra wasn’t budging. “Maybe someday I’ll be a faerie.”

Altair grabbed her shoulders, snarling, “Do not say that. Don’t even think it.”

Lyra stomped on his foot, hard, and wailed, “You’re a meanie!” Then she ran off, crying.

Altair lifted his eyes to glare daggers at Lucien. “Look what you’ve done, you’ve given her notions. Saying such things around here — it’s dangerous. We could all be kicked out, and then what would happen?”

Lucien raised his hands in surrender. “I swear, causing trouble was not my intention.” He dared take a step forward, his mind scrambling to figure out how to reassure the child, and utterly failing. “But there are other options for you, besides this village.”

Then Lucien realized that there were others watching, villagers who’d paused on their way to the clearing, or who’d poked their heads out of the windows of dwellings. He recognized most of the faces from last night’s goings-on, though there were a few that were strange to him. Folk who’d hidden from the faerie intrusion, but who were now allowing themselves a look at him from a safe distance.

“Faeries always bring trouble to humans,” Altair was saying hotly, his voice carrying on the humid morning air. “Just because you spent one peaceful night here doesn’t mean you won’t hurt us later.”

“You’re right to be suspicious. You don’t know me from anyone,” Lucien said placatingly, aware that he was speaking to the crowd and not just to this furious boy. “I know my kind’s brought you trouble before. My intentions are good, but I’m not omnipotent. My being here could have consequences, and I can’t guarantee that they would be good ones.”

“I can,” said a lovely clear voice, and Lucien’s heart nearly stopped when Elain strode out into the path to approach them. She looked radiant, her skin more sun-kissed than it had been yesterday, almost glowing in the morning light. She had changed into another simple human-style sundress, with more finely-woven fabric than village standard issue, and her hair was fully loose, gloriously tousled about her bare shoulders.

But any other observations he might have made about her appearance faded away as she stepped alongside them, her brown eyes sparkling as they met his. “I am a Seer,” she told Altair, and announced to anyone else listening. “I have visions of the future. And I have Seen that this village needs Lucien.”

Lucien stared, unable to summon the presence of mind to form an intelligible question. He’d tried to research Seers, upon finding out that Elain was one, but had found more fanciful tales and myths than actual information. He’d trusted in Elain’s visions enough to seek Vassa, but had heard no talk of more visions afterwards.

Rhys and Feyre would be certain to keep such things well under wraps, not trusting him with valuable secrets. If Elain was sharing foreknowledge of the future, they would desire to keep that carefully hidden. And Elain herself certainly wouldn’t tell him, for she never spoke to him at all, if she could help it.

That made it all the more jarring when she turned to him now, saying, “Did you sleep well last night? You don’t look it.”

Lucien burst out laughing. “I suppose one doesn’t need to be a Seer to see that. No, I slept horribly.” Her smile slipped, and he went on hastily, “But it is no matter. I have endured worse, for stupider reasons.” He swallowed down his nerves, adding, “You look very well.”

Couldn’t think of one charming thing to say, could you, idiot.

But he couldn’t bring himself to flirt and flatter. Not with Elain, not after everything.

Elain’s slender hand reached up to smooth out a lock of tousled hair back behind his ear, and the tenderness of the gesture, the familiarity behind it, almost made him shiver. “I’m sure you could rest later.”

“I’ll rest when we’re back at the palace. There’s too much to do here. Right now I’m going to chop wood,” he said, remembering Altair’s suggestion, and feeling like he would jump out of his skin if he stood next to her, enduring near-touches, much longer.

“And I’ll help harvest,” Elain said, thoughtfully eyeing the bundle of greens that Altair still had clutched in his palms. “Altair can show me which parts are edible.” She smiled at the boy, whose combative demeanor was progressively calming down the more Elain talked. “Could you tell them I’ll be along shortly?” Altair beamed at her, then turned and headed back the way he’d come.

“You’re good with them,” Lucien murmured, watching him depart.

Elain flushed. Had the compliment discomfited her? “So are you.”

His words faltered as he struggled to answer. “I — did you really see me in a vision?”

She nodded, biting her plump bottom lip in a way that he found utterly distracting. “I don’t know how it works, exactly. I hadn’t had visions in quite a long time, but since coming here, I’ve had several.” She fidgeted with the embroidered hem of her dress, then seemed to will her hands to go still again. “I’m not sure how much I should say. If sharing the visions changes the outcome.”

Then it’s a good one, or she’d want to change it. That was cause for hope, at least. But his mind was still twisted up around what she’d said to the boy, the implications wrapped up in it. The village needs me? What the hell could that mean?

He didn’t want to seem too eager, but he felt like he would combust, he was so curious. “Perhaps it’s sharing visions that ensures that they happen the way they’re supposed to,” he suggested. “Like when you sent me to find Vassa.”

“Sent you?” She looked puzzled.

“Before the War. My mission to the Continent. You Saw her, so I went to go find her,” he prompted. It had been one of the most momentous decisions of his life. Did she not remember her role in it?

Elain said softly, “I didn’t tell you to do that.”

Lucien’s breath whooshed out of him in a rush, his heart starting to pound. “You didn’t tell me to stay, either.”

Cauldron damn him, was he really picking a fight with her? Now, when she was just starting to tolerate him? Of all the stupid, impulsive things —

“I didn’t handle it well,” Elain said, her shoulders slumping. “I was overwhelmed by all that happened. Still half-convinced I could be human again. I wanted to push away everything faerie, including you.” Especially you, she might well have put it.

“Because I was there that night at Hybern?” he asked bitterly.

“Because you made my visions stronger. Because I thought I still loved Graysen. Because the — magic — confused me,” she said, her lower lip trembling as though she might cry. 

Magic. She means the mating bond. She couldn’t even bring herself to say the words. That was fine — he couldn’t bear to hear her say those words, either.

“And yes, because you were there at Hybern,” Elain went on, her expression pained. “They all blamed you, and so did I.”

He’d had plenty of time to regret his actions, during the long weeks he’d been separated from her, and all the miserable Night Court years afterwards. He had tried to see it from her perspective, how she might blame him for her kidnapping and rough treatment. He’d wanted to protest that he’d had no idea that they would target Feyre’s sisters, that he’d tried to stop the King, that he hadn’t wanted the mating bond to snap that way. But what was the use of protesting his innocence, when he was surrounded by people who needed him to be guilty?

And he had been guilty, to a certain extent. What an utter fool he’d been to go along with Tamlin’s schemes, lending half-hearted support with his presence. I should have taken Feyre at her word, that she wanted to stay with Rhys, and stayed the hell out of it.

But then his mind spun back to what Elain had just said, parsing the words out more distinctly. She did blame him, at the time. Had she since altered that opinion?

“There’s a lot I still don’t understand,” Elain said, “a lot I don’t know about things that happened. I didn’t realize just how much, until I came to the conference.” She took a halting step towards him, and it took all of his fraying self-control to avoid reaching for her. “I’ve met people I was told I should hate, but I liked them. And people who hate me and my family. I just don’t know what to think anymore.”

Lucien’s mind raced, struggling to imagine who she might be referring to. The person she didn't hate was Tamlin, probably, if their cordial chat was any indication. But who’d made her feel like she was hated?

“If people have been rude or unkind —” he began.

She held up a hand. “Maybe they had reasons.” Her gaze had drifted to a spot on the grassy path between them, but now she looked back up at him, so much sorrow in her expression that he had to again resist reaching out to comfort her. “They took me to task for my thoughtless behavior. It was harsh, but… not undeserved, perhaps.”

She was so close now that her scent was lingering all around him on the air, still peering intently at him. What she saw, he didn’t dare wonder.

As far what she’d said about herself, he had no idea what to think, either. Had his friends, or gods forbid Eris, told her what a sorry state he’d been in after the bond had been broken? Was she saying all of this out of pity?

His ears burned with humiliation. He didn’t want her to know just how low he’d fallen, how pathetic and miserable he had been. He’d wanted to die, fade away into nothing, rather than face that gaping emptiness inside him. He didn’t want her to know that, nor the vultures that she called her family. It would give them far too much power, too much to gloat over.

Those lovely dances from last night, that sparkling enjoyment — had that been out of pity, too? The thought threatened to engulf him whole.

She just feels badly that you were a mess after she broke the bond, and this is her way of smoothing things over. She doesn’t want to be hated, or scorned as heartless.

And Elain wasn’t heartless. That was the problem. This would have been easier to stomach if it had been Feyre, who’d exchanged her earnest human nature for the sneaky, manipulative way her mate treated others. Then Lucien could tell himself it was part of the game, that she was lulling him into cooperation for some political purpose, just as she’d done at the Spring Court. He could keep his defenses up around his heart, keep his distance that way.

But Elain was sincere. How could he defend against that?

“I’ve upset you,” she said worriedly, twisting the edge of her hem between her fingers. “What did I say wrong?”

“You said nothing wrong. It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, nudging a clump of grass with his foot, trying to focus on the feel of the dew on his bare toes.

“It does,” Elain exclaimed, “of course it matters.” Her hand rested on his arm, and he barely suppressed the shudder that rolled through him at the gentle sensation. Feel nothing, say nothing, she means nothing by it. “Will you look at me, Lucien?”

His resolve cracked under the force of that simple request, and he raised his eyes to her, taking in again her lovely face, the concerned look in her eyes that held so much wonder and wisdom within them. He couldn’t bear to look, and yet he couldn’t bear to turn away.

“Tell me,” Elain said softly.

Lucien’s throat worked, until he could choke the words out. “I don’t want your pity.”

“Pity?” Her forehead scrunched in confusion. “Why pity?”

“Because I’m —“ His hand flailed about uselessly in the air as he struggled for the right word. “What else would it be?”

“Lucien,” she said gently, reproachfully. “There is nothing pitiful about you. Nothing at all.”

He gaped at her, incredulous. How could he believe it?

She stepped back, her expression turning sorrowful. “You don’t trust me any more than these people trust faeries.”

“I want to, but I don't know if I should,” he admitted.

Elain blinked, taking a moment to process this answer. He felt wretched, like he’d tainted all of last night’s enjoyment with his foolish answer, and wondered if he’d ruined any possibility of goodwill between them.

But at length, Elain looked back up at him, and to his surprise, she looked more pleased than upset. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he sputtered.

She smiled a little. “Being honest.”

“Don’t thank me for that. It’s the bare minimum,” he scoffed. “How can there be any trust without it?”

Elain shook her head. “You know what my court is like — how my family operates.” He nodded, not trusting himself to answer without unleashing a torrent of insults on her court and family, and she went on, “It’s refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t hold back.”

“Even when his life depends on it,” Lucien quipped, his mechanical eye clicking in agreement. That had always been his problem, that he was too quick to blurt out everything he was thinking, and it had always brought him the worst pain and heartache.

“You’ve always been honest,” Elain said. “Even when other people thought I couldn’t handle things, avoided mentioning certain subjects, or told me only so much of the story. It’s funny, how they said that you’re sneaky, when really, it’s just the opposite.”

“Don’t ask me to comment, or you’ll get a diatribe,” Lucien warned her.

She laughed, and the tension inside him began to settle. “Some other time. For now, I believe we’re both expected.”

“Right. I promised I would chop firewood,” he said, clapping a hand to his forehead. “And I’ve got to get a message to the palace soon, or Eris will have my hide.” Then another thought occurred to him, and he cringed. “More to the point, Tam’s going to lose it if he doesn’t know where Briar is, and that she’s all right.”

“You can’t use your magic paper?” Elain asked. “The one where you all share messages?”

“You picked up on that, did you. Very observant. Apparently, I’ve got to be sneakier,” he joked. She swatted at him, and he chuckled. “All right, all right. It’s regular spelled paper, like your court uses. I just added a little extra spell-work so all the Consortium leaders can share it. But there’s a magical shield around this village. No magic works here whatsoever.”

Elain frowned. “But I’ve been having visions. That’s magic, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Your magic is different from everyone else’s, since it came straight from the Cauldron. Maybe the shield doesn’t recognize it, or it’s simply too powerful. Here, let’s try it.” He dug around in his pants pocket, tugging loose the hopelessly crumpled, folded up bit of spelled parchment that he’d stashed in it.

Elain took the parchment, her frown deepening. “You’re trusting me to write out your message?”

“Yes,” Lucien said, managing a smile at last, “I guess I am.”

Chapter Text

Lucien dumped the mass of breakfast plates into the washbasin, grateful for the task to keep himself busy. The more time he spent in this village, the more his mind strayed in directions too risky to go down, and he had to rein himself in before it got completely out of hand. Spending so much time with Elain, talking with her so openly and getting actual responses from her in return, was messing with him in ways he struggled to articulate. He’d long since accepted that she didn't want him, that she disliked even being in his presence, and now they were talking and laughing, and dancing, by the Cauldron. How was he supposed to stay indifferent, when she’d thanked him for being honest with her?

How often do her people lie to her? Or avoid telling her anything important? How does she stand it?

He sighed, reaching for the woven dishrag and swiping it across each plate, scraping the wood grain as clean as it could get, when a woman stepped up alongside him, holding out forks and spoons. “Thank you,” he said, reaching for them, then saw that it was Lyra’s mother, whose name he’d found out was Leda. She was eyeing him with a nervous expression. She’d agreed to answer his questions last night, but seemed to be having second thoughts about it.

“Linnet says we need more firewood,” she said, twisting her hands nervously together.

He nodded, taking his hands from the washbasin and flicking the water from them. If he’d only had access to his magic, he could have dried them in an instant, as well as every dish and utensil that had to be laboriously wiped off by hand. “I chopped some earlier. I can bring it.”

He tilted his head towards the door, inviting her silently to join him.

Tentatively, reluctantly, Leda accepted.

He looked around one last time, assuring himself that all was well, as their message to Tamlin had promised he was doing. He noted Briar first, talking quietly with the village leaders, and then he searched until he found Elain. She was shoveling food scraps into a dirt pile, chatting merrily to her fellow workers about nutrient levels and soil reclamation, and he couldn’t help but smile to see it.

She’s really not like the rest of her court, is she. He couldn’t help but marvel at the irony of it. Elain’s power was in her patience, in cultivating new growth over time, so utterly different from either of her sisters. It wasn’t as showy or glamorous as being a High Lady or warrior, but to Lucien’s mind it was far more important. Anyone could wreak destruction through malice or carelessness, but it took more skill to do what Elain did, and a special kind of caring heart that was all too rare in any realm he’d ever lived in.

He watched Elain for a few more moments, nearly averting his eyes when she happened to glance in his direction. He’d been caught out staring - surely she wouldn’t welcome it.

But she only smiled, her lovely face alight with some secret amusement, and he found himself smiling in return. Then he forced his feet to take steps in the opposite direction, before he lost all track of what he was meant to be doing.

The mating bond’s long gone, why am I like this, he thought in exasperation.

Lucien stepped out of the hut, his eye clicking as it adjusted to the brighter sunlight, the sultriness of the day enveloping him like a blanket. There was something comforting about Summer’s warm sunshine, though the humidity could be oppressive. And Lyra’s mother stepped up beside him, squaring her shoulders as though to say Just get this over with.

He cleared his throat, striving to sound casual. “Have you lived in the village very long?”

Leda nodded stiffly, keeping pace with him as he walked down the village’s main path. “We moved here right from the camps. I was already pregnant with Altair then.”

Lucien considered the earnest and capable boy, on the cusp of maturity, and quickly did the math. “Then this village has been around since the War ended?”

Another brusque nod. “We left the camps as soon as we could manage it. We weren’t going to wait around to see what would happen. We didn’t want Fae overseers to control us.” Then her pale face colored, right to her hairline. “That is, I mean —“

“I’m not offended,” he shrugged. Indeed, her talk was mild, compared to what insults and curses humans had thrown his way over the years. “I can’t blame you for being suspicious. Perhaps you all thought you’d been brought to Prythian to become slaves, as your ancestors were.”

“Yes. Exactly.” The woman’s pinched expression relaxed a fraction. “We didn’t want to be here in the first place, you understand. We tried to remain behind, but it’s like we suddenly lost the will to protest.” She gestured back towards the hut they’d just come from. “It was a fae woman, a face a little like your sweetheart’s, but vicious and sharp, and very impatient. She wouldn’t hear no argument from us, said there was no time to answer our questions. And we never saw her again afterwards.”

Lucien grimaced. He knew exactly who could fit that description, and who had the mind powers to overcome a human’s resistance. “I’m sorry. That must have felt like a violation.”

He was tempted to point out that Feyre’s abrupt actions had saved Leda’s life, and her husband’s, and her unborn child and future children, but that didn’t take away the fact that she’d been whisked from her home and was now in exile. She didn’t have to like it, any more than Elain or Nesta had, when their destinies had been decided for them.

Leda’s expression softened a little further. “It wasn’t the worst that could happen, I suppose.”

She bit her lip, looking away pensively, and Lucien self-consciously kept up his pace, nodding to others they passed along the way, until he reached the stockpile of wood he’d chopped earlier, and began loading the logs into a bundle in his arms. He hadn’t been surprised that the woodcutter and his axe had been nowhere to be found — the stupid man was probably sulking in his hut, or sleeping off his drunkenness, and his lazy sons with him.

At length, Lyra’s mother spoke again. “It’s no use, you know. He can’t come back here.”

Lucien frowned, wondering why the woodcutter's absence would be missed by anyone, but then she went on, “I don’t want to give Lyra false hope. I know she misses him — we all do. And his absence has made some folk suspicious.”

Of course she meant her husband, not that buffoon that you foolishly tussled with.

Lucien turned to face her forthrightly, fully taking in how sorrowful she looked, how forlorn. “So he is alive, then.” Fallon had said as much, but it was helpful to confirm it.

She nodded, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “Yes, I think so. I would have heard, if he wasn’t.”

Lucien hoisted the logs a bit higher in his arms, then cocked his head towards the remaining pile on the ground. “Give me another few, would you?”

Leda stared, then reached for one, adding it to the pile he was carrying. “You can take that many?”

He managed a small shrug of his shoulders, shifting the bundle in his arms so that the rough edges of the wood wouldn’t dig into his skin. “Fallon always said my fae muscles were good for something.” In fact, what Fallon had actually said was much cruder, but he wasn't about to repeat that in front of a lady.

“You knew the Captain before coming here?”

He nodded, smiling wistfully. “We served together, on board the Elain.”

A little shiver ran through him as he remembered that ship, and how his heart had swelled the first time he’d seen it, with her name emblazoned across the side. How he’d foolishly felt like she was welcoming him, carrying him into the fray, with the promise that she’d protect him and bring him back home again. The ship herself had not disappointed, while the namesake had been quite another matter.

“Tyndar was going to serve on board the Feyre, but when the time came, he didn’t want to leave me,” Leda said, and patted her belly self-consciously. “I was several months with child already.”

“That decision saved his life,” Lucien said sadly. “All hands were lost aboard that vessel.”

“That fact brought him no pleasure. He wanted to fight. He felt like a coward when all his friends left for battle. Even fancied that the ship could have been saved, if he’d only been aboard to help them.”

“It’s tempting to think like that. If only this or that, it all could’ve been different,” Lucien said sadly. He was certainly familiar with the temptation, had indulged in those broodings on many occasions. If only he’d never dallied with Jesminda, she might still be alive today. If only he’d talked Tamlin out of allying with Hybern, if only he’d figured out Ianthe’s plan to target Feyre’s sisters, if only he’d stayed behind when Feyre left and let the bond with Elain lie fallow —

“I think it’s why he joined up with the rebels,” Leda said quietly, her eyes darting around to check for eavesdroppers. “Because he felt guilty about not fighting before. He felt like he owed it to those who didn’t make it, to take up the human cause to help their families prosper.”

Rebels. Lucien had suspected something like this, but to hear her say it outright was still alarming. “What can you tell me about these rebels?” When she hesitated, he lowered his voice. “I promise you, Leda, he won’t get in trouble —“

She cut him off with a bitter laugh. “Unless you’re the new rebel leader, you can’t promise any such thing. They don’t take very kindly to deserters.”

He thought frantically, trying to understand. Fulvia had expressed the same concerns about her husband, and Tiberius had almost died from breaking the oath he had made to keep all of the rebellion’s secrets. “Is that why he’s been gone from the village? Because he tried to leave the rebellion?”

Leda nodded, her eyes brimming with tears again. “It was the only way to protect our son.”

“The rebellion tried to recruit actual children?” Anger churned in his gut. He hadn’t thought anyone could sink that low, even rogues and assassins. “Or did they threaten your boys, in retaliation?”

“No, no, it’s not like that. It’s —“ She broke off, looking around again nervously, then her fingers sank into the sleeve of his tunic and she tugged him off of the path, behind some trees with copious vines, out of sight of anyone. He hastily set the logs down on the ground so that they wouldn’t topple from his grip, and tried to focus on what she was telling him. “The son that I speak of is not in the village. He lives in the city, in a home for foundlings.”

Lucien stared at her, confused by this revelation, but then he recalled what he’d overheard in the forest, when Lyra was arguing with her brothers. “Your other children think that their brother is dead. From the illness that plagues this village.”

“That’s what we told everyone.” Leda swiped haphazardly at her sunburned cheeks, chasing the tears that were spilling out from her eyes. “The village lost eight younglings that season. Ten others fell seriously ill and barely recovered. There was hardly a family who wasn’t affected.”

Lucien shifted awkwardly on his feet, wishing he had a clean handkerchief to give her, but strove to stay quiet and patient as she continued, “Our family was no luckier than anyone’s. Two of my three boys fell desperately ill. You don’t know what it is like, do you, to have children that are in danger?”

He mutely shook his head, and she went on, “I stayed with them, tended them at every hour. Tried to make them drink water, take food in their bellies, mopped their brows, cooled their fevers. I would have done anything to save them.” She made a harsh, scoffing sound in the back of her throat, almost a growl. “I even prayed to your Mother Goddess. I begged Her to spare them, one mother to another.”

Lucien didn’t dare ask if the Mother had answered those prayers. He already knew how often She didn’t.

“But you said two of the boys got sick. So one didn’t?” he prompted her gently, when she had stayed a long time silent.

“Altair and Castor fell to the curse. But not Pollux,” she said, so quietly that Lucien had to lean forward to be sure he caught every word. “Pollux always did heal very quickly. And never seemed to get sick, not ever. But I didn’t know he had… abilities, until the night he saved his brothers.”

Lucien’s mechanical eye clicked as he examined her carefully, and she flushed a little under the scrutiny. “I’m only human, if that’s what you’re wondering. A very foolish and stupid human, who went walking in these woods alone, when I happened on a faerie.” She looked away into the distance, as though she could see all the way to those woods. “Or he happened on me, you might say. He’d been hunting in the forest, you see, but when he saw me, he decided I was better prey than the wildlife.”

Lucien swallowed hard. No wonder she is so suspicious of faeries. The fact that he was standing alone with her now, out of sight of the rest of the village, suddenly registered fully with him. How much she must trust him, if she was willing to risk it? He silently vowed to prove himself worthy, to help her and her family however he could.

“When I later found I was with child, of course I hoped it would be my husband’s,” Leda said, a flush lingering on her cheeks. “I didn’t know I was carrying twins. Castor came out a regular child, but Pollux was born far too small. Yet he was stronger than his brother, grew more quickly. I knew then what must have happened.”

“One twin from each father,” Lucien surmised, and she nodded. “But no one else suspected?”

“For three years we were able to pass them both off as Tyndar’s, until the curse struck the village. Pollux was the only child who stayed healthy. I knew that it would raise suspicions, but I thought I could lie and say his symptoms were milder.” She loosed a shuddering sigh. “But when he cured both of his brothers, merely by touching them, I realized I couldn’t hide him anymore.”

“He must have had strong healing magic,” Lucien said softly, wondering who the father might have been, for a demi-fae child so young to already have such power. How badly these people could have used one with his talents. “The other villagers wouldn’t accept him?”

Leda shook her head, fresh tears beginning to fall. “You know how people feel about half-breeds. I wasn’t going to take the chance. At best they would tolerate him, but always look on him with pity or disgust, or suspicion. And what if they attacked him, and me for bearing him? My other children would pay the price too. We would be shunned, if not turned out of the village entirely.”

“And your husband?”

“Tyndar swore he didn’t care, that he considered Pollux his son just as much as the others. I know it pained him to have to raise a child that he hadn’t sired, but he tried hard not to show it.”

Lucien thought of Beron Vanserra then, of his wickedness and cruelty that spanned centuries, both before and after his bastard son’s birth. “It sounds like your husband is a better male than most.”

Leda managed a shaky smile through her tears. “He is that. He would do anything for his children.” She straightened her spine. “The village was in uproar, with so many younglings ill, so he was able to slip out with Pollux. Said he was going to other villages to look for a healer, then came back and told everyone he had perished. But he’d taken Pollux to the temple down in the city, where they run a home for foundlings. The priestesses have raised him ever since.”

“That must be hard for you, as his mother.”

“I miss him every single day. It kills me to have to hide him like this, to not know how he’s doing. But I know they can give him a better life,” Leda said firmly.

“But you wouldn’t consider moving to Adriata? Maybe there you could live with all your children,” Lucien suggested.

Leda again shook her head. “I — don’t want to live among faeries. At least here, I know he can’t reach me. At least here, I know I’m safe.”

Lucien’s hands curled into fists. “It is despicable that you are not safe everywhere.”

“You are a strange one, to be sure. Here I’m telling you your people are dangerous, and you aren’t trying to talk me out of it,” Leda said.

“I’m not going to talk you out of what you’ve experienced,” Lucien said. “Enough of my people are dangerous, especially to humans. If anyone can speak to you of this with any knowledge, it is Briar. She has chosen to live among my kind, despite what horrors were done to her. Perhaps you could ask her opinion of it, if you wanted.”

Elain, too, had made a kind of truce with it all, but she had powerful sisters and friends. And she’d chosen a vicious warrior to fall in love with — perhaps that was how she reconciled it.

It felt wrong to be pondering such things, which were not meant for Lucien to think about. He’d already trespassed too far, overstepped the distance she’d put between them. For his own sanity, he had to keep his distance, avoid becoming entangled with her again. They had established a friendly rapport, some modicum of trust even, and he had to be satisfied with that much.

“Briar was a Child of the Blessed,” Leda said, with a hint of distaste. “Perhaps her faith in faeries still lingers.”

He conceded this readily with a dip of his chin. It was not up to him what humans chose to believe, though for Tamlin’s sake, he was glad that Briar had forgiven fae-kind, or chosen not to blame them all for Hybern’s violations.

“From what I’ve heard of this rebellion, it’s a mix of human and faeries,” Lucien said. “So your husband must have put some faith in them, also.”

She blew out a long breath, as though marshaling her strength. “The rebellion was always a fool’s errand. I told Tyndar he was inviting trouble. We were trying to stay away from faeries, not get ourselves all twisted up in their schemes. But he convinced himself it was necessary.”

“You were the more sensible one,” Lucien said. “This rebellion is doomed to failure. A High Lord can’t be killed easily, or else it would happen far more often.”

Leda shrugged one shoulder. “Supposedly they had a way around it. Tyndar didn’t know all the details.”

Lucien filed that away to ponder later, but asked, “What made him decide to break with the rebels?”

“He found out they had a list of targets. And he saw that the temple was on it — where Pollux lives, with the foundlings. He tried to talk them out of it, but they wouldn’t listen. Not even when he pointed out they’d kill children.” Leda let out a choked sob. “Now that Tyndar’s spoken up and made trouble, he’s had to go into hiding. I think he’s keeping an eye on the temple, but what can he do against all the rebels?”

Lucien’s mind struggled to keep up. What the hell could they want with the temple?

A chill ran down his spine, the implications forcefully striking him. He had told Tarquin to guard the palace, which meant he could have diverted guards from other targets. What if he’d made the rebels’ job easier?

He grabbed up the logs from the ground, then started to walk briskly back towards the village center.

“Where are you going?” Leda squawked from behind him, panting as she struggled to keep up.

“We have to send the High Lord a message,” Lucien declared, looking around nervously. “Where is Elain?” He dumped the logs in a messy pile by the bonfire and tore back into the work hut, shouting her name.

He drew up short, for the hut was deserted. A basin had been knocked over, water siphoning outwards through a hole near the bottom, and dishes and rags were scattered haphazardly. “Elain?” he cried out, his voice growing frantic.

“Fates,” Leda exclaimed, “what could have happened?”

His eye was clicking so rapidly that he had to close his eyes to control it. Don’t panic, you won’t do anyone good that way. But this had all been fine when he’d left, with no hint of oncoming trouble. The rebels couldn’t have snuck in, could they? 

What if Elain had been seized? What if she and Briar were in danger?

He whirled towards Leda, intending to stammer out a question, but just then, Elain burst into the hut, her brown eyes wide with fear.

“Lucien! Oh, thank the Cauldron!” She lunged for his hand, yanking him forward with a strength that surprised him. “Come on, you’re needed.”

Chapter Text

You need me? he almost burst out, a strange warmth rising inside his chest even as his heart thudded with anxious alarm. Thankfully, he had some restraint left, and he managed to ask instead, “Elain, what’s happened?”

Elain’s fingers tightened around his, distant wailing and shouts of alarm rising around them. “The little boy’s been taken ill with the curse,” she said breathlessly.

Behind them, Leda let out a strangled cry, then dashed away, probably to find her own children. But Lucien only stared at Elain, struggling to understand what he was meant to do about it. “I don’t have my healing magic with the village wards up, and I probably wouldn’t be strong enough anyway, even if I were to cleave through them,” he protested.

If I can even do it.

No — he wouldn’t think like that. He’d fought through the King of Hybern’s magic once, without even knowing that he could do it. He’d neglected that part of his magic over the past ten years, certainly hadn’t trained in it, but he’d be damned if he would allow that to get in his way.

Elain shook her head rapidly. “They don't need magic. They need water.”

“Water?” His head whipped towards the downed cistern, and he lunged for it, tipping it back up to rights, trying to estimate how much was still contained in it. “This is less than half full. Will it be enough?”

“Let’s bring it, then refill if we have to,” Elain said, and it was so eminently sensible, so practical that he could think of no better suggestion. She released his hand and ran to one side of it, looking expectantly at him. “Ready?”

Am I ever?

He swallowed down all of his misgivings and threw his shoulder against the cistern, hoisting it up with a grunt of effort. Elain braced the other side, helping him to keep it balanced, and together, they edged towards the doorway. The damned thing blocked his view entirely, looming over them both dangerously, but Elain occasionally called out directions to guide him, back up a little, hold on, let’s angle it sideways, until they’d managed to coax themselves out into the open.

“This way,” Elain declared, and he silently thanked the Cauldron for her calm, steady thinking in the face of a crisis. He staggered a little, bracing the container with both arms, before stumbling down the path as she guided them. The water sloshed dangerously inside the basin, dripping out of the top and splashing on the ground, and he gritted his teeth, focusing on keeping it upright and as stable as possible, his arms burning with exertion.

“How much — further,” he panted, when the cistern lurched wildly again, and he really felt in danger of dropping it.

“Here. Just here,” Elain said, and he let the container slip downwards in his grasp, lowering it down to the earth as steadily as his trembling arms could muster. He breathed hard, trying to quell his rapidly pounding heart, then nearly jumped out of his skin when Elain’s gentle hands came to rest on his shoulders. She gave a startled, sweet little gasp, briskly removing her hands from him.

A guilty, furtive sort of longing curled up inside him, and he cursed himself for his stupid reaction. He wanted her touch, as much as he shouldn’t.

Don’t get distracted, this village is in danger.

“What now?” he asked, looking up at Elain, vaguely aware of people running past him, around him, pouring water from the basin, bringing supplies into the cabin. And beyond that, a plaintive, desperate sort of wailing that tore at his chest. He had never sired a child, much less lost one, but he knew the anguish of having the one he’d loved most ripped from him suddenly, and he felt a desperate need to help, to prevent anyone else from having to go through it.

Elain hovered uncertainly over him, her gaze shifting between him and the hut just ahead of them. Was she considering a course of action, or debating how much she was willing to tell him? “I think I Saw this in a vision. There’s a plant — it grows by the lake,” she said finally. “If I saw it again, I might recognize it.”

“This was in your vision?” She nodded, and he hastily stood up, his thoughts swirling about, more puzzled than ever. “Do you know where the lake is?”

She scanned the area just beyond them, frowning in concentration. “It has to be that way,” she pronounced at last, pointing. “Where the vegetation changes.”

Lucien had no idea what she was talking about — it was all a sea of green to him, endless leaves and mud and water, all jumbled up together in a riot of hanging vines and gnarled curling branches. The chaos of Summer’s rainforest was nothing like the ancient, stately Autumn woods with its jewel-toned colors, or Spring with its well-spaced out trees and predictable growth patterns.

He would just have to rely on her better judgment. “Let’s go, then.”

Elain nodded resolutely, then bounded away, and he followed her with his heart in his throat. They plunged into a dense undergrowth of forest, the canopy looming high above them. If he’d been less exhausted, and thinking more clearly, he might have suggested that he climb to the tree-tops, to get a better idea of where they were going, and checking the area to be sure it was secure. But it was all he could do to keep track of Elain, keep up with the twists and turns she was making. She moved with a grace and ease that reminded him of last night’s dances, and he admired how well suited she was to the forest.

Elain occasionally turned around to glance at him, as though to see whether he was still following, but mostly kept her gaze fixed ahead. She seemed to be seeking signs along the forest floor, brushing her fingers against the leaves and tree trunks, delicately sniffing the air. What she was looking for, he didn’t dare interrupt her to ask. Elain had Seen this in a vision, and clearly excelled at what she was doing, so he kept his eyes focused on her, instead.

Suddenly, Elain stumbled forward, seeming to trip over an exposed tree root, and Lucien leaped towards her, desperate to steady her before she toppled. His hand closed around her elbow, tugging her backwards.

She tensed, but didn’t jerk her arm away. “Thank you.”

It was almost too much, that he was touching her and she was thanking him for it. Of course it meant nothing, and he was ridiculous, but his stupid heart wasn’t getting the message.

“Besotted idiot,” he muttered to himself, then quickly let go of her, hoping like hell that she hadn’t heard him.

Thankfully, it seemed that she hadn’t. She only took another step or two forward, then announced that they’d arrived.

He drew up short, startled to see that the understory had opened up into a wide expanse, a glassy lake shimmering in the sunlight. He glanced about, then quickly focused back on her. She had knelt down in the mud, her hands immersed into murky water. She either didn't mind the dirty conditions, or had the good sense to ignore them in an emergency — either way, he admired it.

After a few quiet moments of searching, her hands emerged with a mass of tangled green vines within them. “This is it. Has to be.”

He lowered himself to crouch beside her, eager to see what all the fuss was over. “What is it?” he asked dumbly, fingering the teardrop-shaped leaves between his fingers.

“A type of vervain, I think,” Elain said pensively, staring down at the plants, “but not any kind I’ve ever seen. The leaves are usually smaller, and more serrated, and it isn’t flowering at all. It must be a regional variety —“

“What are we meant to do with it?” he interrupted, striving and failing to stay patient.

Her large brown eyes swept up to him, and he nearly averted his own gaze in embarrassment when he saw her consternation. “Sorry.”

She blinked at him in seeming surprise. “For what?”

“I don’t mean to rush you,” he stammered. “I just, if you’ve already Seen all this, I thought it would be faster.”

To his chagrin, Elain’s shoulders slumped a little. “I wish my visions worked like that. But I don’t See nearly everything. I get little snippets. Images, really. I’m not sure what plant I saw, but I feel this is the right one, somehow.” She tilted the mass of green in her hands first one way, then the other. “But I need to be sure this is the right thing, before we go ripping more of it out of the ground.”

In Lucien’s judgment, she was probably right, though he was no herbalist and had no way of corroborating it. But he sensed that it wasn’t the plants that frustrated her. “Having visions must be confusing,” he said, watching her with a sinking helpless sensation, having no way to be of aid whatsoever.

“Maddening,” Elain agreed, looking relieved that he’d said so. “It’s why I always used to avoid them.”

Something she’d said to him earlier came back to him in a rush.

I wanted to push away everything faerie, including you. Because you made my visions stronger.

He’d been too swept up in emotion to perceive the implications before, but now his mind seized on that comment, turned it over, examined it from every angle. Had she not had any visions since he’d left Velaris? Or had breaking the bond allowed her more control over them?

He remembered how fragile and despairing she had been, in those early days after the Cauldron. How listless and delicate, her gaze so far away, like she was hearing and speaking through layers of fog. When she’d spoken, descriptions of visions had tumbled out of her, without her seeming to distinguish what was Seen and what was real. She must have been inundated, overwhelmed, and it must have been deeply distressing.

And her mating bond to him had been the cause of it.

Guilt burned sour in the back of his throat. He’d been the cause of her distress, in myriad ways. The fact that he hadn’t meant to distress her didn’t make up for the fact that he had done it.

No wonder she wanted me gone from her presence.

He resisted the urge to clutch at his ribs, to reach for the twisted-up remnants of the long-severed connection. It would only drive him mad again, torture and tantalize him with what never could have been.

This was the exact wrong moment to think of it, anyway — he ought to be focused on saving the sick child, and getting to the bottom of the rebellion, rather than wallowing in laughable self-pity.

She pressed one of the leaves to her nose, then crumpled it up in her fingers and sniffed deeply. Then she surprised him by gathering the lot into her palm, and extending her other hand to bring his closer. He instinctively cupped his own hands, receiving the plant sample into them. “Could you bring this to Linnet? Ask her if this can cure fevers?”

So many questions still burned inside him, but all of them would have to wait until later.  He stood up carefully, desperate to hold on to the precious sample that she’d worked so hard to locate. If this wasn’t the medicine that could cure the village’s unfortunate children, he knew it would be a crushing blow, but he was determined to find out, one way or another.

He strove to make his voice sound reassuring. “I’ll be back soon.”

And then he was running, back through the forest.

Chapter Text

Lucien shoved his way through the trees, heedless of the villagers trailing behind him. “Elain,” he called out, wincing at the odd muffled echoes of his voice that made him sound frantic. He was meant to be helping, reassuring these people, not scaring them further. “Elain, you were right! The leaves are working!”

He stumbled into the muddy clearing, the lake looming dark and ominous, but his gaze went to the golden-haired angel stooped at the edge of it, frantically digging. “Elain?” He approached her cautiously, eager to give her his good news. “You were right, the plant is fever reducing,” he said, his words tumbling out in an excited rush. “I’ve brought help. We’ve got to collect as much as we can.”

Then he cleared his throat, recalling that it wasn’t all good news. “Four other younglings have fallen ill, after Riordan,” he went on, casting a nervous eye towards the humans, who had fanned out along the lakefront and were poking at the various reeds and vines and lilies, trying to locate the right plants for collection. “And there could be more, either now or the next time.”

They need Eos, he thought darkly, doubting that any herbal remedy was much use against such a pervasive, swift disease. But until he could convince them to allow access to a fae healer, it seemed that Elain’s plants were the best shot at controlling the fevers, reducing the chance of seizures and brain swelling, and the likely death that would follow.

Elain’s head turned, and her beautiful brown eyes were brimming with sorrow. “There’s not going to be enough on the banks of the lake,” she fretted, “and if we pluck it all clean, it won’t grow back, and they’ll have nothing for next time.” She turned back to her task, her shoulders hunching, and Lucien’s heart sank into his stomach.

The humans were shouting excitedly to one another, indicating places to harvest or arguing over whether a particular leaf was the right sort, but he tuned them all out, trying to think. Surely there had to be a better way to do this than pawing aimlessly at the mud?

“Elain,” he said, taking steps towards her, careful not to trod any potentially valuable plants underfoot, “this can’t be the only source of it. Where does it grow?”

Elain’s hands were digging frantically into the earth, grasping at any visible snatch of green, and she didn’t seem to hear him in her zeal to find as much vervain as she could. She had hastily bundled all her hair off her neck, and a thin line of sweat trickled down her back, soaking into the thin cotton cloth of her sundress.

“Elain,” Lucien said again, then tugged gently at her shoulders, warm and smooth beneath his fingers.

Her hands stilled in their movements, and he braced himself for the moment that she would shove him away, or cringe from his touch. But some of the tension seemed to release from her, and she relaxed her neck and shoulders a fraction. Like his touch soothed her.

“Elain, tell me where to find more of these plants,” he said softly, desperate to stay focused and not dwell on the fact that he was touching her.

“In the water,” she whispered, in a voice that sounded strangely far away. “You went under the water.”

“Did you See this?” he asked, gently drawing her back from the lakefront, frowning at the glittering dark expanse of the water. Under, she’d said. How could he do it? How was he meant to find which leaves to pick in that murky water? He could barely identify them here, in broad daylight, with Elain here to help him.

Elain let herself be pulled back from the lakeside, going pliant in his grip, but murmured, “You were under so long.”

That didn’t sound like a good outcome at all. And yet, she wasn’t discouraging him. Perhaps it would be all right, then? Or perhaps there was just no other way to get what they needed?

He stared back at the lake, his mind spinning circles. How could he stay under for any length of time?

Then he happened to glance upwards, one of the village wards sparkling golden in the corner of his eye, and then down at his left hand. It was unbandaged now, and in rather good shape considering that he’d exploded it.

The answer came to him then. I’m going to have to use my Day Court powers.

It was the only thing that made any sense. With a bubble of air around him, he could stay under longer - long enough to locate where the plants were growing. He wouldn’t have to dive too far deep, just stick to the areas that received sunlight. And he could make light, too, to see by. He’d done it before, once, Under the Mountain. He’d tried to use his flames to see Feyre better, in her cell, only for a ball of light to appear instead. At the time, he’d chalked it up to Amarantha’s manipulation, thinking she’d messed with him somehow. But no, it was his heritage, his power. He just had to focus, Cauldron damn him. 

Or I could just cleave the wards, winnow to the palace, and come back with a half-dozen fae with healing magic. Eos would be the main one, of course, but the rest of the Dawn delegates could help her. Non-Dawn faeries, too, like Tamlin —

He immediately dismissed that idea out of hand. His disappearing suddenly, in the midst of a crisis, then returning with a cadre of powerful faeries, would frighten these simple folk out of their wits. It would look like an invasion, like he was taking advantage of their weakness. They’d finally started to trust him and Elain, even turning to them with confidences and trusting them with the children. If he betrayed that trust by bringing in strangers, he’d be undoing all of the rapport they’d established.

He thought of stubborn old Fallon, who knew he was dying, and refused to seek healing outside the village, or take Lucien’s offer to bring a fae healer to tend him. And Leda, who’d spirited her boy from the village during an outbreak, even though he had cured two children from the sickness, and could have saved many others.

What a fucking waste.

Lucien couldn’t begin to understand the logic, even as he sympathized with their skittishness. They’d rather die than be healed by a faerie.

But a faerie picking herbs from the lake? That, they would tolerate.

“I’m going to have to cleave the wards to do this,” he fretted, keeping his voice soft so that only Elain, with her faerie hearing, could catch his words. “It will make the village vulnerable to outsiders, until they snap back into place or I can re-weave them.” It was a deeply dubious prospect, but he saw no other option. There was no way he could last under the water without his magic. He nervously glanced around behind him, then went on, “Will the children die without this treatment?”

Elain bit her lip, her eyes starting to well up with tears. “Very likely.”

More could die still, if they’re attacked. But he had to act based on the real threat here and now, not some hypothetical future. “I think it’s worth the risk, then.”

She nodded. “I trust your judgment.”

You do? he almost squawked in reply, but caught the words before they could slip out. Take the compliment, you stupid idiot, he berated himself. It’s likely to be the only one you’ll ever get from her.

He flexed his fingers, unease crackling through him. He didn't actually know how he’d cleaved Hybern’s wards, only that he’d been furious and desperate, and his magic had lashed out of him. His mechanical eye skittered over the wards in more detail, trying to see whether they were even similar. They were — eerily so.

Hybern’s magic, here in Summer? It was a deeply disturbing prospect.

He leaned down to roll up one pants leg, then the other, contemplating how he might unleash his magic. He had no technique to speak of, but if he’d done it once, he could do it again. The children’s lives were depending on it.

He kicked off his filthy sandals and began to wade in. The crisp, cool water tickled at the tops of his feet and then his calves, then soaked rapidly upwards into his pants as soon as his knees went under, then pulling at the hem of his tunic, making the sopping wet fabric cling to his skin. He cringed as the muddy ground squished between his toes and then turned mossy, then slimy as he wandered in further.

He shook off his revulsion, then gazed up at the wards arcing over the treetops, and reached out with a trembling hand. Shit, I really don’t know what I’m doing.

He glanced back behind him, to where the humans were gathering along the banks of the lake, wide-eyed and wondering, and then at Elain, who was standing beside them, intently watching him.

Remember, he urged himself. She was plunged in the Cauldron, screaming, crying, and you were trapped, you couldn’t save her —

His chest ached with that old shame and heartache, that desperation that he had to reach her, whatever it took. Lost, she was lost, and he couldn’t get to her. Again he’d been forced to watch as an innocent female paid for the mistakes and cruelty of others.

And not just any innocent female, but his mate.

Anger burned caustic inside him, and he reached out and yanked, as if he could rip a hole in the world straight to Hybern, and throttle its fucking monsters and murderers through it. 

The wards surrounding the village pulsed, each strand glittering and then unfurling. His eye clicked at it, trying in vain to track it, and a burst of glorious hot power sizzled through him, making the water around him begin to steam and bubble.

No, not that power, he thought frantically, almost starting to panic. He’d turn this lake into a damn hot spring, if he wasn’t careful.

The water turned bitingly cold again, and he almost sagged with relief, even as his muscles tensed against it.

He seized on another memory, this one from the conference’s opening ball - the bubbles he’d seen jiggling on Helion’s outfit, the one he’d refilled on the dress of that courtier. He could summon air, and reshape it around him, but could he make a bubble large enough to breathe in? He breathed in and out, trying to corral it, almost laughing at himself for his idiocy. Why had he thought it would be that easy?

I could try to just hold my breath, and make more dives under the water. But he wouldn’t last long enough, and he knew it. He’d have to bob up and down under the surface, gasping for air each time, rippling the surface of the water and making it murkier, wasting valuable time in the process.

No. This is the only way. He grappled with the magic, trying to wrestle something useful out of the tangle of powers inside him. He couldn’t look Elain in the eyes again if he failed, yet again —

His ears popped as the air charged around him, as the lake water grasped at his arms and shoulders, as the cries of encouragement from the villagers faded out into a vague echoing roar, and then he was lowering himself into the water completely, the shield of air shoving the water back from his neck and face. Lucien almost cried out in surprise, his own breathing turning loud and ragged inside the bubble he’d made, and then he was plunging into the stillness of the water, the sun’s light vanishing.

Well, that wouldn’t do, not at all.

Summoning light came easier for him, though he was anxious to avoid any hint of heat or fire. He extended his hands, the air bubble keeping him buoyant, and then the water around him began to glow as the magic poured out of him. He stared at it, entranced at the strange underwater world it revealed, the myriad of creatures swimming and scattering, but he had no time to look at them now.

He wasted valuable moments floundering aimlessly, looking for the mudbanks where the plants grew, and then he was shoving against the water, heading for the vines of dark green that crawled along the edges of the banks. He swam up close, trying to peer at the little teardrop-shaped leaves through the distortion of his air bubble. Imagine all this effort, and I grab the wrong plant, what a waste that would be.

He reached out again with shaking hands, kicking his legs to stay afloat, trying to recognize the plants by touch. Fuck it, he wasn’t a botanist, but they did feel like the leaves Elain had collected.

He began to yank the vines out in handfuls, wrapping them around his forearm to keep them from drifting off or sinking into the depths. He gritted his teeth as the magic pulsed erratically, his light fizzling out and then re-asserting, making the water swirl in his vision. Was his control over his Day Court power that poor? Or were the wards trying to re-thread themselves? He’d lose his light and his air, if that happened.

Better hurry, then. His heart pounded in his ears as he wrestled with the vines, his breathing echoing hollow through the cavern of his air bubble.

Is this enough? He had no idea how much of the healing herb he was holding, and couldn’t spare time to find out. He just grabbed more, scrambling to get closer, finding the air bubble a hindrance now that he needed to dive downwards, and then it dissipated with a whoosh, thousands of tiny bubbles pelting his nose and cheeks, and he hastily gulped a last lungful of air, pressing his lips tightly together to hold it inside him.

He kicked, aiming downwards, his lungs burning with effort. Just a few more, then he’d have to surface. The humans would be waiting. And Elain —

Suddenly a sharp pain in his left lung sent him reeling, like a harpoon had speared him. His head jerked downwards, seeking the spot, his lips parting to gasp in shock, but he clamped them shut before he lost his air.

What could have struck me?

There was nothing in the water. No large creatures, no jellyfish. Nothing that could have stung or bitten. He twisted, clamping a hand to the spot, finding that there was no puncture wound. Was he even bleeding? He flailed, the vines trailing around him, encircling his legs, and then he did panic, thinking he’d get tangled up in them.

The water clouded around him, dark, foreboding, and he kicked his feet, pawed the water with his free hand, trying to remember which way was up. The ache in his chest tugged, fluttering strangely, not painful so much as there inside him, yanking him in a direction. He followed it, reaching to what he thought was upwards, a hazy light that could have been the Sun. Just a bit more, you have to make it.

He pushed and struggled, refusing to surrender to the water and the darkness. The village needs you. Elain said so. Elain is up there —

His lungs were full to bursting, but he clenched his jaw against the urge to just let go, and kicked as hard as he could. Can’t die like this, not after everything.

A deeper darkness loomed against the rippling above him — was it land? Could he hoist himself upwards?

He flung his arms towards it, his fingers slipping and then grasping into the mud. If he hadn’t been holding his breath, he would have shouted from sheer relief, which then turned to fear as his muscles shook with effort, as the water clung to him, his body so heavy, so tired, so —

A searing ache spread through his ribcage, a terror bright and strange and wondrous, and then a hand plunged into the water above him, grabbing his wrist with surprising strength.

Lucien breached the lake’s surface, the stale breath whooshing forcefully out of him, his ribcage burning. He coughed and spluttered, then gulped in air greedily, closing his eyes against the sudden glare of the light, his breath shuddering from sheer relief and terror. The leaves felt slick against his palm, the crushed fragments fragrant like citrus. “Take — them —“ he wheezed.

His world, which had been nearly silent, whooshing gurgling water and cavernous air, burst into a deafening storm of shouts and motion. He was yanked forward, dragging mud with him, and the plants were wrenched from his hands before he could release his grip on them. His ears filled with words, excited, frantic, but he understood none of them as insistent hands turned him over and vines were untangled from his limbs.

The commotion retreated, the air growing heavy and warm and still, and he slumped gratefully on his side, shut his eyes, and breathed, and breathed again.

“Did I —“ he rasped. “Are they —“

“Yes,” Elain’s voice said, close to his ear, trembling and sweet.

Elain. Gods, she was close, close enough that the warm heat of her was seeping into his back, her honey and flower scent filling the air. She was leaning over him, smoothing his hair back, one of her hands braced on his shoulder, and he suppressed the delicious shivers that rolled through him with each sensation.

 Then she spoke again, scolding, “You were reckless.”

Chapter Text

Lucien had always thought Elain was beautiful, but angry Elain was something else entirely. Gods, she was glorious. She could scold him for ever.

Though he couldn’t fathom why she was angry. He’d gotten what they needed, hadn’t he?

He stared up at her, his mind hazed over with desire and wonder. She’d called him reckless, like she disapproved of the risks he’d taken, like his safety mattered to her. It was such a dizzying change that if he hadn’t already been sprawled on the ground, he might have toppled over.

“Yes,” he said, his voice trembling. “Yes, I was reckless.”

And being so close to her was more reckless still. More dangerous than the lake could ever be.

She blinked at him, as though the admission confused her, and then he saw the sorrow and fear in her expression. Her eyes were glassy, tinged with red, and her cheeks were streaked, as though she’d been crying. Fuck, this has upset her.

Lucien’s lungs felt suddenly squeezed, like no more air could fit into them. Surely this wasn’t on his account? No, that could not possibly be. She was merely upset about the sick children, was all.

Elain’s lower lip quivered. “You admit it?”

“Without reservation,” he said, too weary to even think about protesting his innocence. “I am often reckless. As my brother Eris is quite fond of observing.”

Her gaze became less accusing, and more contemplative. “And your father.”

“My —?“ His thoughts raced, trying to interpret the statement, until he realized that she must have meant Helion. “I shudder to think what he would say on the subject.”

Elain said quietly, “Perhaps you would be surprised.”

Had she actually talked to Helion about him? He felt faintly nauseous, trying to picture it.

“I have had so many surprises recently, I suppose one more wouldn’t be out of place,” he said, his words coming out more bitter than he’d intended. It was all too strange, too confusing, too sudden.

Had the past few days been some vivid fantasy, some daemati-induced dreamscape? He flexed and bent his fingers, then pressed his hand flat on the ground in front of him, half-expecting to feel nothing but empty air. But no, there was the earth beneath him, and the Sun overhead, and Elain somehow beside him.

He groaned softly and sprawled onto his back, blinking up at her in wonder. Her dress was splashed wet and muddy in places, the edge of one hem torn loose. Wreathed in the warm glow of the sunlight, her loose hair a golden sparkling halo around her shoulders, she was almost too painfully lovely to look at, even in her disheveled condition. Or because of it. It was a strange, intimate privilege to see her like this, like he was being let in on a closely held secret.

“Lucien,” Elain said reproachfully, “you could have died. What were you thinking?”

I was thinking that I couldn’t let you down, yet again. 

He couldn’t say that. So he just mumbled, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, more gently. “Just — promise you won’t do that again.”

The words he really wanted to say were all caught in his throat, and he swallowed them down before they could choke him, and reached for humor instead. “I believe I can swear to you, on my honor, that I will refrain from deep dives into lakes for all posterity.”

“Lucien,” she huffed. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” He sighed. There had been a time when he would have promised her anything, everything, to gain her trust and affection. And maybe he still would, but — “Life is dangerous, Elain. There are risks in everything we do. Even staying out of things can be risky, if action is what’s required.”

Would she hear a criticism of herself in that statement? From the chastened, blinking look on her face, he feared so.

He hastened to add, “I have erred on both sides of it. Standing by when I ought to have made a stronger effort, and pushing too hard when I ought to have left well enough alone. I am not a good judge, it would seem, in the moment.”

“Your intentions have always been good.”

It was a profound relief to hear her say it. She’d once thought he betrayed her to Hybern, but she’d told him she no longer believed that. But that was a long way from this concession.

“All the good intentions in the world don’t matter,” he said, “if harm is the end result of it.”

Elain lifted her chin. “There are those who do harm, for their own selfish reasons, and are unapologetic. Proud of it, even.”

Could she be talking about Rhys and Feyre? Could he dare to hope that her eyes had been opened?

So what if they have? What was she going to do about it? Her husband was the Night Court’s spymaster and torturer. There was no way she’d convince him to oppose his High Lord in anything. And her sisters were the only blood family she had in all Prythian. Would she really oppose them, and risk estranging herself from their love and protection?

Lucien tipped his head back, basking in the humid mid-morning sun that was doing little to relieve his soggy condition, and Elain said worriedly, “You’re exhausted.”

“Exhausted beyond reason. Filthy, too, I expect.” The abject state of him would make a true Vanserra weep for shame. He’d been filthy before he’d gone into the mud and the river. He needed several baths, and a change of clothes, and a bed to collapse into afterwards.

When all this is over, I’ll sleep for a month.

But it was not over yet, not by a long shot.

He started to shove up onto his elbows, intending to hoist himself from the muck. “I ought to head back to the village, see if they need —“

“No.” Her hand on his chest was feather-light, but all seven High Lords together couldn’t have held him down so firmly. He stilled, his entire world narrowing to the delicate fingertips pressing into him. “You just risked your life. You should rest.”

He stared up at her, lips parted, afraid to breathe lest he jostle her fingers. Rest seemed impossible. The feel of those fingers, even through his sodden shirt, would haunt his dreams and nightmares.

Then Elain seemed to realize what she was doing, and her muscles stiffened, her hand jerking backwards so that it hovered above him. And while he shouldn’t have hoped for anything different, while of course she wasn’t trying to actually touch him, he felt as though she’d reached into his ribcage with those slender fingers, through that empty place where the bond had once been, and yanked his heart out all over again.

“Perhaps you are right,” he said, straining to sound cavalier and failing miserably. “I’m not much good to anyone in this condition.”

Elain frowned. “Don’t say that,” she chastised him.

Cauldron damn it all, there it was again, that sweet, kind concern that she always showed others. She had never directed it at him, not until they’d found themselves here together. What sorcery was this, that he was receiving it now?

“Tell me, then,” he said. “What must I do? I’m yours to command.”

Gods, that sounded stupid. He had to have suffered a loss of oxygen underwater, to be actually flirting with her.

Elain blinked at him, as though trying to puzzle out whether he was serious, and was she blushing? She seemed to shake it off, saying matter of factly, “Linnet has a washbasin, and a bed you can sleep in.”

“I don’t want to impose—“ he began.

“Lucien.”

He held up his hands, realizing he wasn’t going to win this one. For reasons that he couldn’t begin to fathom, Elain had apparently decided to care for him. Perhaps she’d decided they could be friends, after all.

Friends with Elain. He’d never have thought it possible. At least while they were here, away from the prying eyes of her family and his, perhaps they could be. He had no idea how she’d feel about it afterwards, once they were back in regular company again. For his part, he couldn’t imagine trying to explain this to Vassa, to Jurian or Eris. Though Tamlin, perhaps, would understand it.

Lucien painstakingly pushed back up to sit, suddenly self-conscious. He smelled foul, and his hair was streaked with mud and lake filth, and his clothes were awkwardly plastered against his body, tighter than any Illyrian leathers. “A washbasin wouldn’t go amiss,” he admitted, smiling ruefully. “And I’ll have to beg Fal to loan me a tunic and trousers.”

Elain’s eyes glanced downwards, taking in the sorry state of him, then snapped back up to his face a little too hastily to be casual. That bad, huh?

“Can you walk?” she asked.

He scrambled up to his feet and tried it, managing with only a mild wobbliness that he hoped she hadn’t noticed. “If only the wards had stayed down, we could winnow,” he grumbled.

Elain squinted up to the sky. “Is that what those golden strands were?”

“I disrupted them long enough to use magic. They snapped back into place while I was under.” He gazed out ahead into the forest, towards the center of the human village. “I hope I didn’t put the village too much at risk, doing that. Even if it was only for a few minutes.”

“It felt like forever,” Elain whispered.

He murmured, “I really am sorry.”

She turned her face back to him, finally smiling. “You’ll just have to make it up to me later.”

He clamped his lips tightly shut, before something entirely too reckless could tumble out, and they threaded their way through the forest together.

* * * *

“No trouble at all, lad. It’s plain hospitality, no need to repay us. Let it be our thanks, for harvesting the ironweed for our medicine,” Linnet said. She was bustling about the little cabin with far greater speed than he would have expected for a woman of her advanced age, especially since she’d been on the go all day, attending to one sick child after another, and calming down their terrified families and neighbors. “We would’ve had a terrible time, if we’d run out of it.”

She reached down to lift a heavy pot of hot water that had been left just inside the doorway, and Lucien moved to intercept her, offering, “Let me get that, at least.”

Linnet waved him away. “Can’t. Lady’s orders. You’re not to exert yourself til after you’ve rested.” She tilted her head towards Elain, who was supervising with a stern, no-nonsense expression that Lucien had come to recognize as quintessentially Archeron. Nesta always wore it like armor, and he’d seen it rest across Feyre’s face on many occasions. Even usually affable, easygoing Leith had been known to adopt the Take-No-Shit Look, as the sailors called it, when judging disciplinary matters on board his ships. But he’d never imagined Elain could pull it off quite so well.

Then Elain was beside them, hoisting up the water with apparent ease, and Lucien tried to keep himself from staring appreciatively at her. She’s much stronger than they all think, even without warrior training. “This is for the tub?” she asked Linnet.

“Aye, lass, the quicker the better.” Elain carted the water away, while Linnet turned back to Lucien, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “He looks like he wrestled a Bharatian mud snake.”

“And lost,” Lucien agreed, managing a shaky laugh. But then he asked, more seriously, “You’re sure the children are recovering? The danger has passed?”

“I don’t want to speak too soon. Bad luck, you know. But in this healer’s opinion, the worst may be over,” Linnet said carefully, calling out over her shoulder. “Anyway, there’s naught more you can do for it, Goldeye. You’ve more than earned your rest.”

She was folding a set of trousers on the bed he’d be using, then piling a folded shirt on top of it. Was that Fallon’s old uniform, from their fighting days? Lucien couldn’t help but feel nostalgic to see it. Not that he missed the war, but everything had been so much simpler back then.

Elain was suddenly by his side again — how does she do that? has her spymaster husband given her lessons? — and she was tugging gently on his arm. “You’ll hear all about it, after you bathe and rest,” she said firmly.

“Can’t argue with that,” he said, with a lightness that he didn’t quite feel, and inclined his head respectfully to Linnet. “Thank you.”

“We ought to be thanking you. Both of you,” Linnet said.

“We are going to get to the bottom of this, figure out why the children are getting sick in the first place,” Elain said. “Then you won’t have to deal with this ever again.”

Lucien quickly chimed in with his agreement, then added, “One thing I can tell you, it isn’t magic. The wards around your village are stronger than almost any I’ve encountered.” Only the wards surrounding Velaris, and at the House of Wind, even came close. “More likely it’s some sort of pathogen. Maybe Eos, that’s my healer friend, could come and—“

Elain’s hand on his arm grew tighter, and fuck, if his whole body didn’t react to it. “Lucien.”

He was all innocence. “Yes, Elain?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Later.”

He bowed his head with mock contriteness. “Yes, Elain.”

Linnet chuckled appreciatively. “Good on you, lass. I’ll leave you both to it.”

Then the healer was gone, and Lucien and Elain were alone, in the very small cabin that seemed to be growing smaller by the second. It was one thing to be around Elain in ballrooms and in clearings, surrounded by people, or out in the wildness of lakes and forests. But there was no buffer here, and damned little room to maneuver.

And Linnet had said you both. What did she think they were going to be doing?

Lucien had never been shy around females before, had never thought twice about being seen in any state of undress, but he suddenly he felt exposed, even with all of his clothes still on.

“You don’t have to —“ he began, at the same time that Elain blurted, “I think I’ll just —“

“Sorry, you first,” Lucien said.

“Oh! Well,” Elain stammered, plucking her hand from his arm self-consciously. “You probably want to get comfortable. Um, undress.” She said the word as though it were something utterly profane, which struck him as laughable. She and the spymaster undressed sometimes, didn’t they? Not that he wanted to contemplate that too much, either.

“Sure,” he agreed, though his heart felt heavy. The idea of her leaving was distasteful, although it would inappropriate, and very awkward, for her to stay. He felt squeezed and pulled at the thought of her going, like part of him would be dragged off with her.

Elain was watching him with a wariness in her eyes, as though waiting for him to say or do something. But he had no idea what she wanted from him, or expected.

“I’ve needed a bath since yesterday. I’ve got an ungodly amount of muck and sweat to wash off,” he said. Why was he still talking? She had just implied she was going. “You might not even recognize me after.”

She blinked several times, then said, “It’s not like the Cauldron, Lucien. You’re not going to emerge from it as a human.”

He stared at her dumbly for a moment, then burst out laughing.

Elain was standing there, eyes very wide, her hands clasped over her mouth, as though she hadn’t believed she had said it. But then she began to giggle as well, which turned into a full-throated, hearty, musical laugh, a bewitching sound that he’d first heard last night at the dance, and would give almost anything to hear again.

“I-I can’t believe I said that,” she exclaimed, between gasps of laughter.

“Oh, I can,” he said, his body shaking with his own laugh. He’d never heard her joke like that before, but then he’d never spoken to her properly until yesterday. And it made sense, didn’t it? Why wouldn’t his mate have a sense of humor?

But she’s not your mate anymore. How had he forgotten that?

His laughter subsided into a rueful chuckle. He was getting too used to her. Enjoying her company far more than was proper. “Well, seeing as you’ll all be stuck with the same old me, the least I could do is get clean,” he said finally.

Elain nodded, her own amusement fading. “Everything’s ready for you. I could just —“ She waved her hands in the air, vaguely in the door’s direction, suddenly unable to finish the sentence.

“Right. Okay,” he said stupidly, then cringed at himself. Real smooth, idiot. “Thank you, Elain.”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded, almost more to herself than to him. Then she turned and withdrew from the cabin, which suddenly felt far darker and more dingy without her in it.

Chapter Text

Well, this is depressing.

But it was better this way, he reflected. He couldn’t think straight when Elain was around. Perhaps the solitude would bring him a chance to find clarity. 

Last night and this morning had been too good, despite the awkwardness and tension. The dancing had been tempting enough, with his hands on her waist, her hands on his shoulders, lifting her, their bodies pressed together. But more tempting still was her angry concern for him, the way she’d scolded him and ordered him to rest. And then the sparkling amusement in her eyes, her laughter. Was there a sound more musical? He doubted it.

He’d already gotten more from her than he’d allowed himself to ever hope for, and he was going to get greedy if he didn’t stay vigilant. This was all going to end as soon as they were out of the village, back in reality, and his sanity hinged on remembering that. He ought not to let his stupid heart desire what was off-limits, or heartache would surely result from it.

Lucien sighed, then strode towards the washbasin, determined to get undressed and into the clean water. He gratefully peeled the shirt off his torso and upper arms, grimacing at the disgusting state of it, then looked down at his left side where he’d felt the pain earlier. As he suspected, there was no visible wound, no indication of injury, just a faint tugging underneath the skin. Had he pulled a muscle?

Maybe I am turning human, after all. No magic bathtub required.

His lips curled upwards into a wry grin. He would treasure that interaction, along with the others. He would have a stockpile of memories, of experiences with Elain, to last him long after she went home to the Night Court. Even if he never saw her again.

Cauldron damn it, I might never see her again. The thought of that burned sour in the pit of his stomach.

He swallowed hard, then extricated his hands from the sleeves, wadding the dratted garment up and chucking it into a corner. It was probably unsalvageable. He might as well feed it to the fire —

There was a rapping on the door, jolting him out of his reverie. “Yes?”

The wood creaked as the door was shoved open. “Goldeye? Are you decent?”

Lucien huffed a soft laugh without turning around. “Oh, Fallon. You know the answer to that as well as I.”

The old captain laughed heartily, rapping the floorboards with the tip of his cane as he shuffled in. “Well, would you look at the state of you. Haven’t seen you this filthy since the Scouring of Hybern.”

“I was about to bathe,” Lucien said pointedly.

“And I won’t keep you from it. Just bearing a message. Lin bade me to say that the Mandray tyke has recovered.”

Lucien whooshed out a sigh of relief, turning from the tub to fully face his visitor. “You seem to be in better straits today, if you’re out of the sick house to be running errands.”

Fallon clicked his tongue. “Sharp as ever. You slapped together enough of them ironweeds to spare some for me. Turns out they’re a good balm for faerie poisons.” He patted his side, wincing slightly. “Not a cure or nothing, understand, but it bought me some time.”

“Oh, Fal,” Lucien exclaimed, his heart squeezing.

“Now don’t fuss, Goldeye. That’s an order,” the old man grumbled, though he really did look pleased, and a little chagrined. He had resigned himself to death, Lucien thought, and now that he’d gotten a reprieve, he had to figure out anew how to feel about it all. It was a predicament that Lucien knew intimately.

“Yes, sir. No fussing, sir,” Lucien deadpanned, mock saluting.

“Cheeky bastard,” scoffed the captain, though he was grinning. “Come find me when you’re presentable again. There’s much to discuss. I want to hear more about this fancy fae conference of yours, before I consider wasting my time on it.”

Lucien checked the impulse to launch into an eager pitch of the conference’s merits, sensing that he must not overplay his hand. These people had isolated themselves for a decade, harboring deeply held suspicions of faeries. And not without reason.

So he only raised one eyebrow, asking, “So you’re really considering it, then?”

“Oh, Lin and the girls are already set on it,” Fallon said, gesturing in the air with the tip of his cane. “I’m only debating whether I should go with them.”

“What’s the harm of it, if you do?” Lucien cast about for an explanation. “You’re surely not afraid, if you’re fine with others going. Why not you along with them?” A cold, creeping sense of dread tickled down his neck. “Is it Jurian?”

Fallon’s face reddened. “Never utter that treasonous rogue’s name in my presence.”

Fucking hell. Lucien had hoped that a decade’s worth of distance might have eased those old resentments. How many of these folk still blamed Jurian for his double dealings with Hybern?

He’d gone around and around with Fallon on the subject, back when the captain bristled at having to accept Jurian’s orders. Once a double crosser, always a villain, Fallon had insisted. One could admit there was a certain logic to it.

But Lucien, who understood the depths of Jurian’s torment, and the precariousness of his position, had kept trying to make the stubborn bastard see reason. Leith forgave him, even after what happened to his daughters, he’d pointed out, on more than one occasion. He’s proven himself a worthy ally. He spied for us. He helped my mate get rescued.

That act alone would have earned Lucien's loyalty forever. But Jurian had become such a good friend to him since that it now physically pained him to hear the man slandered.

What good would come of it, if he convinced Fallon and others to attend the conference, only to have the humans descend into squabbling, chasing old grievances? Was he playing right into the hardliners’ hands, with his foolishness?

He strove to make his voice come out unbothered, casual. “I’m going to need a bath and a drink before we get into this properly.”

“I can help you with the second part, after you complete the first,” Fallon said, the anger receding from his voice. “I can smell the lake rot on you from here. If I’m ever to inhabit this cabin again —“

“I’ll scrub it back to its former perfection,” Lucien promised him. “It’ll be as sparkling as the deck of the Elain, when I’m through with it.”

Fallon snorted. “You were always fastidious about her, almost more than me, her own captain. But now that I’ve seen the namesake, lad, I understand it.”

Lucien was glad then for the mud splattered across his cheeks, so that Fallon wouldn't see the hot flush beneath it.

Mercifully, the captain soon departed, tugging the door closed behind him, and Lucien finally pried the rest of his mud-stiff clothes off and sank into the lukewarm tub. He resisted the urge to yank at the village’s wards again so that he could heat the bathwater, instead focusing on scrubbing every inch of himself free of grime. Someone had strewn bits of dried leaves into the water, which let off a pleasant herby scent that lulled his jagged nerves into sleepy relaxation. But he fought that urge off, instead immersing his head, coating the strands liberally with the oil provided, tugging until the last snarls unraveled.

By then, the water had gone from tepid to outright cold, and had turned a worrying shade of brown, so he rose from the tub and patted himself off. He plaited his hair with his fingers, then coiled the braid into a bun and secured it with a loop. It wasn’t his most fashionable effort, but it would keep his neck and back dry.

Then he shoved his legs into Fallon’s old trousers, which thankfully more or less fit, though they cinched rather than draped over his ankles. He was sure it looked faintly ridiculous, but there was nothing for it but to wear these, or wear nothing. He eyed the shirt, but didn’t put it on just yet, remembering that the rough cotton army issue left much comfort to be desired, and that he'd promised to clean up after himself, anyway. No point in getting the garment soiled before he could even wear it.

He poked his head through the slatted opening that served as a window, scouting out a place to dump the bathwater, which had become like a muddy lake in miniature. A soft rain was falling, shrouding the village in a misty cocoon that felt quiet and peaceful, and he breathed in deeply before calling out to a passing woman, who turned out to be Elain’s store owner friend Forta.

“Just leave it for now, the ground is soggy enough as it is,” she assured him, in reference to his question. “If you really must clean the floor, there’s a basin to collect rainwater at the back of each cabin. You can use a little of that, but don’t overdo it. We need the rest to boil clean for cooking.”

Lucien thanked her, suppressing the urge to lament that they were hard up for clean water when this court’s High Lord could provide them with plenty, instead asking, “What needs to be done in the village?”

“Nothing that concerns you.” She gave him a knowing smile. “We’ve all been told that you’re not to — how did Fallon put it? — not to lift one blasted fae finger.”

“You all ought to be careful,” Lucien teased, “or I’m going to be more spoiled here than I was at the palace.”

But he had no intention of allowing them to cater to him, whatever Captain Fallon might order. There was too much shameful history of faeries expecting such deference, of enchanting humans into doing their bidding, or outright enslaving them. The last thing he wanted was for them feel obligated to serve him. He’d never had to worry with Jurian and Vassa, who’d never seen him as anything but an equal and friend, but he’d always watched himself around all others.

He’d gotten the rainwater collected in a shallow bowl, and was busily wiping his muddy footprints from the floor, hoping he wasn’t soiling the knees of the borrowed pants beyond repair, when the door banged abruptly open.

“Lucien? Forta told me you were — oh!”

He whirled around, his heart thumping in sudden fright, the bowl tipping over and spilling across the floor. Elain was staring at him from the doorway, a horrified expression on her lovely face.

“Elain?” His mechanical eye clicked rapidly as he scanned her for signs of blood or bruising. “What’s happened? Are you injured?”

“Am I injured? You’re asking me?” she cried angrily, storming into the cabin, and shocking him by flinging herself down behind where he was crouched over, so close that her heat and scent permeated the air around him. “When were you going to tell me you needed a healer?” she demanded.

“I — what?” He started to turn around, then went still as she pressed her fingertips to the skin of his back, sending tingling sensations spreading through him.

“You’ve got wounds everywhere,” Elain wailed. Her fingers pressed to one spot, then another. “Oh, Cauldron. Over a dozen.”

Then he finally understood. “Twenty, actually. Each fully healed over.” He twisted around again, catching her hands, and enfolding them in his own, feeling with chagrin how they were trembling. “These scars are old, Elain. I’m all right, I promise.”

“But how?” she asked softly. “How did you get so many?”

Lucien was suddenly very aware of how close she was to him, how familiarly he was touching her. “Let’s get up off the floor, and I’ll tell you,” he suggested, rising from his knees and gently tugging her up with him.

Elain’s face lifted to his. In the low firelight of the cabin, she looked painfully lovely, her golden hair in loose waves, not quite covering her bare shoulders and collarbones. She was dressed in another charming sleeveless cotton dress, this one a sunny yellow that brought out her dark eyes, and the rosy blush spreading across her cheeks.

Lucien suddenly remembered that he was half-dressed, in borrowed pants that fit badly and were now wet at the knees from his careless spill, and blurted, “Let me just grab a shirt.”

He let go of her hands with reluctance, though what was he doing, holding her hands, in the first place?

He swiped up the garment from the bed and slung it hastily over his shoulders, and was fumbling with the first button when Elain said, “You don’t have to cover them.”

It took him far too long to comprehend her. “The scars on my back? Well, they are a shocking sight, aren’t they. This” — he waved his hand vaguely at his left cheek — “is ugly enough for most people.”

“What’s ugly,” Elain said, with a quiet vehemence, “is what was done to you.”

He blew out a shaky breath. “So it was.”

Neither of them moved for a long moment, and then he gestured towards the wooden bench set by the low-burning fire. Elain lowered herself to it, then looked up at him expectantly.

He abandoned his attempts to button the shirt and crossed the room, the wrenching sensation in his gut easing as soon as he was settled down beside her. Elain’s hands were clasped loosely in her lap, and he mirrored her pose, threading his own fingers first one way, then the other. “How much do you know about Under the Mountain?”

Elain’s fingers clenched a little tighter. “Feyre has told me a little. Nuala and Ceri, too. But it is not much discussed, in our family.”

“Yes,” he said dryly, “I can imagine.” He didn’t suppose that Rhys found it an enticing subject to dwell on. “There are many who’d prefer to forget that it happened. That Prythian was so easily conquered, and that we were all so pathetically helpless. It was a test of character and courage, a test that most people failed, if they even lived to make the attempt. It will be a source of shame for centuries to come.”

“But you did nothing shameful,” she said. “Did you?”

His mechanical eye clicked at her, making its own answer, and he gave a rueful chuckle. “Not shameful, perhaps. Just reckless.”

Elain regarded him with those large doe eyes that he’d always found irresistible. “You openly opposed the queen, when others placated her, or supported her cruelties with apparent enthusiasm. You insulted her to her face, and she maimed you.” He raised an eyebrow, surprised she had gotten even this much of the tale, and she explained, “Alis told me she had a mask stuck to her face for forty-nine years, because of costumes they all wore in your honor.”

“One of Amarantha’s ingenious little jokes,” he said sourly. “She had a particular talent for turning people against one another. Of course I would be blamed, rather than her for her violence. Or Tamlin, for ignoring my advice that the masquerade ball was a trap.”

“When you are a Queen, or a High Lord for that matter, I suppose no one dares blame you for anything. It must always be some unfortunate person who is made scapegoat,” Elain observed. To his astonishment, she added, “I have seen how that happens.” 

He didn’t dare ask, though he was burning with curiosity. “Amarantha excelled at such ploys. She pitted every court against every other. It amused her to see us all scheme and grovel.”

Elain shivered, and the urge to brace an arm around her back, to pull her in close and give her comfort, was damn tempting.

“I was fortunate to belong to Tamlin’s court, even if it did draw me to her attention on one particular occasion.” He ran a finger down one of the scars raked into his cheek, wincing slightly at the memory. “We did not have to live Under the Mountain. He managed to win a reprieve, by stubbornly refusing her advances. She would have crowned him her consort, given him precedence above all of his peers, revenge against his enemies too. But he wanted no part of it. So he was cursed, unless he could get a human to love him.”

“Feyre,” she whispered.

“Whatever bad blood there is between them now, there was a time when she really did love him,” Lucien said sadly. “So much that she went charging Under the Mountain, demanding that Amarantha release him. And Amarantha thought she could find some sport with Tamlin, by keeping his lover alive a while, and making her endure various trials and torments. Perhaps she realized that if she killed Feyre outright, Tamlin would never forgive her. It is why she kept me alive, after all.”

Elain’s hands clenched until her knuckles went white. “But what about the wounds on your back?”

“Ah yes. I was getting to that. I was punished for helping your sister.” He tugged on the shirt, suddenly finding it itchy against his back. “My whipping was the encore to her trial’s entertainment. Especially as the queen ordered Tamlin to do it.”

“And he listened?” she exclaimed, her brows drawing downwards. “I thought he was decent.”

“I beg you, do not blame Tamlin. It was that or I’d be killed outright. He saved my life with his actions,” Lucien assured her.

“But the wounds looked so deep.” Elain’s eyes were brimming with tears. Tears, for him? No, he couldn’t bear it. “It must have been painful. And for your own friend to be the one to hurt you so? You must have been very angry with him.”

“If Tamlin had not done his job thoroughly, Amarantha would have added more lashes to the count. I did not blame him, not for a moment.” He swallowed thickly, tasting bile. Even after all this time, he could be back in that throne room with half a thought, screaming in agony. He despised how much power it still had over him.

Elain laid a slender hand on top of his, and he was too weak to resist. He curled his hand around hers, letting the touch ground him. “The physical pain was not the worst part, though I was forbidden to heal. What tormented me was the thought that your sister might die without my help.”

“Wasn’t Rhys there? Did he not help her?”

His laugh was mirthless, bitter. “After a fashion.”

Elain’s fingers squeezed his a little tighter. “I suppose you could give me a diatribe on the subject.”

An odd thrill zipped through him, to hear his own words said back to him. She was an excellent listener, he decided. “It was your sister’s experience, not mine. She saw Rhys’s meddling as helping. Some of us, who watched them together, night after night, got a different impression.“

He broke off, shuddering at the sick spectacle of drunk, glassy-eyed Feyre and her lascivious swaying, her body exposed to leering stares and lewd comments, vomiting and teetering to the laughter and jeers of every Hybern monster and guard in attendance. Lucien had tried a few times to visit her during the day, only to find her curled up in her cell, shivering in her sleep, still smelling like alcohol and vomit, utterly unresponsive to his attempts to wake her. If Rhys had wanted to guarantee that she could never get help from any other person, or figure out the riddle and free herself from Amarantha’s torments, he could not have done a more thorough job of it.

He cleared his throat, aware that Elain was still awaiting his explanation. “Amarantha wanted to show that humans were inferior, that they were fickle and weak and easily led. Rhys played into that expertly, parading her in the guise of a pleasure house dancer.”

Now it was Elain’s turn to look sick. His heart squeezed, for this was too sordid, too cruel for an innocent heart such as hers. “Rhys gave her wine that blocked out those memories. Feyre does not recall those nights, and that’s a mercy.”

But Rhys did recall them. Lucien wondered how the male could stand it, knowing that he’d treated his mate like shit. He wondered what version of the story they’d tell their children.

“Feyre did not tell me any of this,” Elain said, with quiet anger. “She did not tell me you almost died, helping her.”

“It’s all right —“

“No. It isn’t.” She shot up from the bench, standing over him. “It is not all right that you suffered.” She took a step closer, and oh gods, it was murder to keep his eyes on her face, and not on the supple curve of her hip at his eye level. “Feyre was never going to tell me anything, was she?”

Lucien suppressed the sour urge to point out that Feyre had had many things she could have told him, and had never bothered herself about doing so. For all her professed love of honesty, she was rarely honest with others. “Only Feyre can answer that. Perhaps when you go home, you could ask her.”

“Yes. I think I will.”

And the room plunged into a long, unsettled silence.

Lucien watched her, miserable that he’d upset her, and his misery did not lighten at the thought of her going back to the Night Court. He had begun to suspect that she was in fact unhappy there, or at least far less happy than she deserved to be. But he was the last person who could do anything about that.

“You’re tired. I am keeping you from your rest,” Elain said.

“Not at all,” he protested. “I can rest later. I promised Fal I’d clean up the cabin, after I tracked muddy footprints all over it.“

“You slept badly last night. You just exerted yourself to exhaustion. The cabin floor can wait.”

“What must I do, then,” he asked, feeling the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Lie down. Over there.” She indicated the bed and its neatly folded blanket.

“I’m really fine —” he tried to insist.

“Lucien.” Her arms were folded sternly across her chest, brooking no argument from him. He found it alluring to the point of madness.

He rose from the bench, careful not to jostle her as he did so, and moved to the bed, amused and a little chagrined when she didn’t immediately leave the cabin, but stood watching as he arranged himself to lie down and pull the thin blanket over himself.

It was then that he noticed that it smelled faintly of her, of honey and flowers. This must have been where she slept last night. If he weren’t so dead tired, it would be an incredible torment.

But as it happened, he was exhausted, all of the craziness of last night and this morning fully hitting him. In his sleepy delirious state, he imagined that there was movement in the cabin, a sweet song being hummed and the swishing of water, and he soon sank down into a delicious slumber.

Chapter Text

Lucien woke up in a darkened room suffused with a pleasant sleepy warmth, the scents of honey and flowers and citrus intermingling in the air. His right cheek was pressed against rough woven fabric, stretched out over a prickling straw mattress that had apparently failed to disturb his slumber. A thin coarse blanket was entangled in his legs, and he tugged it free, pushing up onto his elbows. A low fire crackled at the room’s center, a pot suspended above it, fragrant steam curling into the air.

Right. I’m in the humans’ cabin.

He blinked, trying to dispel the grogginess, and peeked out of the window-opening to find that twilight had already fallen. He’d missed lunch and was in danger of forgoing dinner, but wasn’t sure whether that was a bad thing, considering what passed for cooking in this isolated village. He could eat when he got back to the palace.

The palace. He was needed there, not here, not any longer. He’d stayed here long past what good sense would have dictated, shirking his duties, abandoning every plan they had crafted so carefully. Yes, what he was doing here was important, in a narrow sense, but he’d taken off into the forests and mountains just when he ought to be helping Tarquin and Cress. Their lives and their court’s stability were under threat, if his intelligence could be trusted, and instead of helping them to strategize, he was here, diving after plants and lugging water. The prospect of Elain being in danger had roused his instincts, damn the broken bond and the last dozen years of misery, but now he had no excuse to linger.

He reached up to undo the loose bun atop his head, which had been tugged askew and was pulling at his scalp, and combed out the damp hair with his fingers before briskly knotting it back up into a single ponytail that dangled down his back, tickling the skin.

Her fingers had been there before, the sweet light touches threatening to undo his composure, the memory tempting him, even now —

No, he could not allow it. Only ruin and humiliation would follow.

He pulled Fallon’s shirt closed around him and did up the buttons, letting the coarse fabric scrape against his back instead.

His feet landed on the wooden floor, which felt damp and cool under his toes, like it had been freshly scrubbed. How long had he slept for? Far too long, certainly. Cauldron knew he’d needed the sleep, but he felt foolish for having indulged. He ought to have insisted that they wrap up their business and return to the palace, or that they make themselves useful to the families with children affected by disease. He ought to have done anything but lie down and let his dreams carry him away. What madness had possessed him?

That, at least, was easy to answer. She was his madness, his foolish desire, one he’d thought he’d finally escaped from. But one night and one day in the village with her, and he was just as entangled as ever, even without the mating bond driving him.

He’d danced with her, laughing and wild. He’d spoken to her freely and openly, watched her charm and care for others. He’d even received some of that care for himself, even when she’d had the chance to put distance between them. His body flushed pleasantly as he conjured her image, eyes flashing with concern and anger, scolding him and insisting he rest. His hand tingled where hers had curled around it, a friendly gesture and nothing more, even if he felt a desperate secret pleasure at it. She’d seen his distress, and offered him comfort, as she surely had done many times with her sisters and other friends. The warm soft feel of her fingers on his meant nothing.

She is married, he reminded himself sternly. She made her choice a decade ago.

But the thought of leaving now, leaving her, physically pained him.

I will see her winnowed safely back to Tarquin’s palace. That was the last thing he could do for her, and he would see it done, if only to avoid an inter-Court incident. The very last thing they needed was Elain's husband or sisters, or the High Lord who ruled them, descending on the conference to avenge her with bloodshed. There would be no Blood Duel, since Lucien was not exactly from Autumn, but he wondered whether Azriel might not challenge him to blows, after all.

And what would Elain think, if that happened? Would it horrify her, or thrill her, to see her husband’s warrior prowess on full display? She did not seem at all like a violent person, but perhaps at home in the Night Court, she was inured to it. It was their way to solve all their conflicts with vicious bouts of sparring, or doling out haughty insults and the silent treatment if they didn’t judge their opponent worthy of spilling blood over.

No, Lucien didn’t miss the Night Court, not in the slightest. It was the one court in Prythian that was truly closed off to him, the one place he would never step foot in again. His welcome in Day was also uncertain - Helion likely didn’t want a bastard son complicating everything, and they would do nothing but quarrel anyway, especially if Helion persisted in allying with Rhys, out of some misguided notion of friendship.

I’ve survived all this time without a father. Nothing needed to change now, just because the truth was out in the open. He would tolerate Helion for the conference’s sake, and his mother’s, because he knew it would pain her if they fought openly. But he would not depend on Helion for anything, or else he was sure to be disappointed.

He had to go somewhere, once Jurian and Vassa departed. He had offers from the various Consortium courts, and Nuan and Eos had both nagged him on behalf of the High Lord of Dawn. He could go many different places. But he didn’t really fit in anywhere, did he?

Such questions floated about in his mind as he finished dressing, cringing at the thought of having to don muddy sandals or find clear water to rinse them, but finding they were in fact mud-free. Had someone come in here while he was sleeping, and scrubbed his shoes clean for him?

He cringed at the thought. He didn’t want deference from these people, or any hint of servile behavior. Or the guilt, when he inevitably stepped in mud again, that he was ruining their efforts.

Lucien slung the shoes on, and strode from the cabin, following the path back towards the clearing. The rain had ebbed, and the village was bustling, a hearty fire blazing in the communal area where a lively crowd had started to gather. Briar perched on one of the low benches, talking animatedly with a group of young people, while Leda and Elain sat together, Lyra and Castor skipping in merry circles around them.

Elain looked radiant in the firelight, her face upturned and smiling, and then he saw that there was a babe in her arms, nestled comfortably in the crook of her elbow, one of its tiny hands clasped around her finger. It might have been the infant he'd seen at dinner last night, which would make sense, since the older brother was just recovering from sickness. Elain looked utterly comfortable with a baby, like she knew just what to do and was happy to do it. The scene was so domestic, so sweet and lovely, that Lucien couldn’t help but stare at it, a secret longing aching inside him.

As if she could feel his eyes upon her, Elain turned towards him, her bright smile wavering. He quickly gave her a smile of his own, determined that his presence here must not disturb her, or interrupt her enjoyment. He had done too much of that in his life already.

But Elain was already rising from her seat, strolling towards him, her brows furrowing with concern as she looked him over. He tried not to worry that he looked ridiculous in his borrowed clothes -- what would she care what he looked like, anyway?

“You slept well?” she asked.

He swallowed, mastering the turmoil swirling inside him. “Very well. I feel quite refreshed.”

“Good.” She was still watching him, her expression softening back into contentment, and she angled her head back towards the gathering. “You missed dinner, but there’s a portion of stew saved for you.”

“That was kind, but I’m not really hungry.”

“Perhaps not, but Lyra will insist you have it,” Elain chuckled, her lovely eyes twinkling, “for it was the only way to get her to eat her portion, by telling her that you would eat yours later.”

Lucien was saved from having to answer by the baby, who chose that moment to let out a scratchy noise of complaint.

“Shh, it’s all right,” Elain cooed, skillfully soothing the child with gentle rocking motions, stroking its velvety cheek with her fingertip. “There, there, love.” Lucien watched her, admiring the tender care she gave, wondering whether she would ever want younglings of her own. Elain with her own sweet babe, Elain as a mother — the thought was too enticing.

And dangerous. He could not allow his thoughts to stray in that direction, or he would be engulfed by a yearning so vast that it would drown him.

Lyra had caught up to them by this time, darting nimbly in between them, and had snatched both of his hands in a surprisingly strong grip. “I told you you were a sleepybones,” she proclaimed in triumph.

He laughed and hoisted her up, before she could trod on his newly clean shoes. “And you were right, as usual,” he agreed, trying not to yelp when she flung her skinny arms tightly about his neck, tugging forcefully on his ponytail in the process. “I have good news for you,” he went on, lifting the arm he’d braced underneath her to move her up higher, to relieve the pulling on his scalp. “I’ve got a plan to find your father.”

Lyra let out an excited squeal that shrilled unpleasantly in his ears, causing the baby in Elain’s arms to start wailing again, twice as loudly.

His eyes met Elain’s, and she gave him a slightly harried but amused look before she redoubled her efforts to calm down the baby, and Lucien strode a few paces away with Lyra so that they would not hamper her efforts. “I’m going to start right after dinner,” he told her. “I just have to stop off first at the palace, to update my friends on a few things, and then I’m going to—“

“You’re already leaving?” Lyra’s voice was plaintive.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “well, if I am to find him, yes. I think I may know where he is, but until I go and see for myself, I won’t be certain.”

Lyra pouted, evidently disliking this answer, but his attention was tugged back to Elain. She had stepped towards them again, the baby cradled upright against her front, its cheek pressed to her bare shoulder, and he struggled to interpret her expression. She was still smiling, but there was an edge to it now, as though she was disappointed.

“We should probably discuss this,” he told her. “Whether you and Briar will come back to the palace with me, or if you’d rather I come back for you later.”

Or maybe she didn’t need his help whatsoever. She’d gotten herself here without him, hadn't she? He was the one who’d shown up uninvited, disrupting the plan she’d put into motion. Presumptuous idiot, he scolded himself.

But to his relief, Elain’s smile brightened, and he felt his own insides unclench. “Would that be too much trouble?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he assured her. And even if it were, he’d never say so. Being of use to her, being close to her, was worth all the trouble in the world.

Lyra’s face popped up between them. “Can I come to the palace with you?”

Cauldron, wouldn’t that be something? He pictured her whooping and hollering down the stately palace corridors, twirling in Tarquin’s grand ballroom, and grinned in amusement. 

But he remembered that Leda had been assaulted by a faerie male, that she’d hidden her family away in this secret place and had endured a separation from her half-fae son rather than risk living among faeries, and he said, “We would need to get your mother’s permission.”

“How charming a notion,” Elain declared, her face lit up with excitement. “Of course you should come to visit the palace. We could have a party, and invite all the children! The Winter prince could come back for the occasion. Maybe Nyx could even join us.”

Lucien wondered how enthusiastic Feyre and Rhys would be about this idea, or Kallias and Viviane for that matter. But he was learning not to underestimate Elain’s powers of persuasion.

“Nyx is my nephew,” Elain was explaining to Lyra, who had twisted around in Lucien’s arms so that she could ask Elain questions. “He’s about your brother Castor’s age, and doesn’t get to spend much time with other children, since he's always so busy with his lessons. I think he would be delighted to meet you.”

Lucien desperately hoped she was right. He knew very well who Nyx’s parents were, and the influences that would surely surround him. How much potential there was for the child to grow up haughty, spoiled and cruel. But with Elain heavily involved in his upbringing, perhaps there was hope for him, after all.

Lyra slid down from Lucien’s arms, excitedly peppering Elain with questions, and he stepped back, his mind turning over the possibilities. If a human delegation did go to the palace, accommodations would have to be provided, and introductions made to all the court delegations. Extra warding around their guest suites should be added, so that they would feel secure sleeping under the same roof with faeries. The agenda would need reworking, of course, not that Cress couldn’t handle it —

“—isn’t that right, Lucien?”

“Sure,” he agreed, snapping back to attention, seeing that Elain and Lyra were both regarding him expectantly. “Now what did I just agree to, exactly?”

Lyra giggled. “Silly faerie.”

Elain, too, was smiling. “I was just saying that you could show Lyra the ocean.”

“You’ve never been to the ocean?” he blurted, then cursed his stupidity. She’d never even left this village. Still, the thought of a youngling growing up in Summer, with its miles of beaches perfect for swimming and frolicking, and not getting to experience the ocean, was sad indeed. “We shall have to correct that with all due haste.”

Lyra was wrinkling her sunburnt nose. “Are there monsters in the ocean?”

Elain gave Lucien a sly smile. “Sand monsters, maybe.”

He burst into a disbelieving laugh. That had been a little too specific to be coincidental. Had she been watching him that first afternoon, playing with Boreas? He hadn’t thought she’d have seen him at all, or that she would have wanted to, either.

The little girl was pouting, and he quickly schooled his expression, lest she think he was laughing at her. “Mama probably won’t let me,” Lyra said bitterly. “She’ll say it's dangerous.”

Viviane had had the same concern with Boreas, he remembered, worrying about his safety near the water. Perhaps they really did need to bring the children together — perhaps their parents would then realize exactly how much they had in common. How they had the same fears, and same hopes and aspirations. How they all longed for a world less cruel, less treacherous for their children.

“The ocean is safe enough, if you’re cautious,” Lucien said. “If you respect its power, and know your own limits, there is plenty of fun to be had.”

They had started walking towards the fire pit, Lyra prancing ahead, and more people were starting to congregate near them. That was well, he considered, keenly aware of his own peril. The more time he spent with Elain, the more time he wanted to spend with her, and the harder it was to keep his feelings at bay. He was going to be tempted to want things, to fall back into his old foolish habits, and he already knew how that would end — with his own heart, once again, in tatters. 

Shouts of Goldeye were called out, cheerful and loud, and he was slapped on the back and shook many hands, and a bench was pulled out and a bowl of stew thrust towards him, and thankfully a fermented drink as well. He took a long swig of that before he dared touch his dinner, but the stew was far more tasty this evening, with hints of some pleasant spicy flavor that almost made up for the mushy thick texture. He ate, and had his bowl refilled, and gave his compliments to the chefs, which prompted another round of cheers from his company.

Lucien endured many effusive compliments about his help to the village, as though picking plants was some great deed. “It was Elain who figured out what we needed,” he pointed out. “She found the lake, and the plants, and helped me understand what to do. Really, she ought to get the lion’s share of the credit.”

Elain’s face was flushed from her ears to her neck, but she accepted their thanks with a vibrant smile, and many assurances that she was glad to have helped in any small way she could. “It’s what we’re supposed to do for each other, isn’t it? Help each other in times of need?”

Not that her human neighbors and friends had helped her, when she’d needed it. Perhaps some of those callous people even lived here now. But she was too generous and kind to hold it against them.

He watched as Elain handed the babe in her arms back to its mother, an exhausted but grateful Ayla Mandray. Then he quickly looked back down at his stew bowl before Elain could notice him staring like the besotted idiot that he was. Don’t make it weird, he scolded himself, or you’ll ruin it.

Briar had made her way over to them and slid onto the bench on Lucien’s other side. “Glad to see you up and about. I was worried.”

He looked up from his stew, startled. “About me? Whatever for?”

“You’re really asking?” Briar frowned, then glanced across him to Elain, who wore a matching disapproving expression.

“Well,” he hedged. He was outnumbered, not to mention surrounded, and he decided that he didn’t mind it. “Well, it worked out all right, didn't it?” He took a gulping bite of his dinner, then said, “We really ought to work out our exit.”

Briar bit her lip. “Yes, I suppose everyone will be wondering about us.”

“More than wondering,” Lucien said, grimacing at the state that Tamlin would surely be in, even with this morning’s letter assuring him that Briar was perfectly well. His other friends were probably furious, and he didn't want to think about Mor’s rage and worry at Elain going missing twice in as many days. And if Mor lashed out, Eris might take the opportunity to strike back, and the entire conference could devolve into threats and brawling.

And I want to bring innocent humans into the mix? I must be losing it.

“I do wish we could stay a bit longer,” Elain said wistfully, gazing into the fire, as though all of the answers could be found within it. With her Seer powers, maybe they could be? He had no idea how her visions worked. “But I suppose our return can’t be put off forever.”

Lucien was surprised to find that he felt the same way. He liked it here, despite everything. He was dreading how it would be with Elain, when they were back amongst their own people.

“What’s our status with the mission? Has anyone committed to joining the conference?” he asked Briar.

“Linnet will head up the delegation. I’m not sure whether Fallon will join her,” Briar said. “Marta wants to come, for personal reasons.”

Lucien grimaced, but nodded. He didn't know what kind of satisfaction Marta Beddor could get, with Feyre and Rhys absent from the proceedings, but she would find allies for her cause, to be certain.

“Forta wants to visit a few other villages, and talk to some people that she knows in town,” Briar added. “She mentioned the names of leaders she’s going to talk to.”

“She is the key to it all,” Lucien said. “You two chose wisely, when you sought her out.”

“That was all Elain,” Briar said. “She insisted we go talk to Forta, even though — others — didn’t think it necessary. They thought to recruit human delegates from the official list only.”

Others. Lucien could guess who that meant. He loved Jurian and Vassa, owed them his life and his sanity, but they had apparently taken things too far. Had they dismissed Elain’s idea simply because it was hers?

“They were wrong,” he said firmly. “No agreement between humans and fae should be made without representation among all human settlements. It would be like choosing one High Lord to negotiate on behalf of all courts of Prythian - leading to nothing but squabbling and resentment, or outright violations of the agreement.”

Elain’s hands twisted in her lap. “I hope Vassa won’t be very angry.”

Lucien turned towards her. “Vassa has a temper, but at her core, she is reasonable. It had to happen this way, or these people would never accept it. And us being here could benefit her, in the long run. Some of the people here were her subjects. She could find support among them, for when she goes home to reclaim her crown.”

Elain’s eyes widened. “Vassa is going back to her homeland?”

“Yes?” He'd thought that was common knowledge.

“Oh, I see.” She was gazing back into the fire, as though she expected a firebird to come flaming out of it. Then she spoke again, quiet, almost forlorn. “Scythia is quite far from here, isn’t it.”

“It is, from the maps I have seen,” he agreed, puzzled as to the sudden change in her mood. If anything, he’d thought that Vassa’s imminent departure would be welcome news, after the quarrel they’d had. “But she will see justice done for the humans here first.”

“She is a very impressive person,” Elain said.

There was nothing in her outward tone or demeanor to show it, but Lucien got the distinct sense that she was unhappy. The mention of Vassa had upset her. Was Elain jealous that Vassa had spent time with her father before his death? Or had Vassa simply offended her?

“Well,” he said, casting about for a way to salvage the conversation, “the humans will undoubtedly need some time to meet amongst themselves, come up with a strategy for negotiation. They’ll benefit from Jurian’s experience, especially, if they can bring themselves to trust him.”

“Why wouldn't they trust him?” asked Briar. “He’s a war hero.”

“And he collaborated with Hybern. Under duress, and with the intention of double crossing the King, but not everyone will accept that as an excuse.” Lucien sighed, setting his cup and plate down by his feet, then bracing his forearms on his thighs. “It’s not dissimilar to what Tamlin did, and there are some who haven’t forgiven him, either.”

Briar made a disgusted face, but it was Elain who spoke next. “Or Rhys with Amarantha,” she suggested.

Although Lucien was of the considered opinion that Rhys had had options, he could concede the point. “Or that. But, unlike both Tam and Rhys, Jurian has no seat of power. His sole mission now is to see Vassa settled securely as queen, to lead her armies, root out any threat to her. He has sworn not to seek her crown for his own, not that Scythia will suffer a male to rule, anyway. He will only over be her general and consort. If people cannot forgive him for his past actions, they at least will see that his intentions now are pure and noble.”

“Her consort?” Elain’s eyes were very wide, her voice hushed. “So they are to marry?”

Again, Lucien was perplexed. He'd thought their relationship was obvious. Had Vassa not referred to Jurian specifically as her consort in all their public appearances?

But before he could answer, he was distracted by a commotion at the other end of the clearing, a spate of raised voices, and then people running. He angled his head to see better, but the general uproar and chaos was hard to interpret.

“Should we go see what that’s about?” Briar asked, also craning her neck in that direction.

Elain gripped Lucien’s arm, her fingers sinking into the rough cotton fabric. “Lucien — the fire —“

He leaped to his feet, rapidly taking in the breadth of the village before him. There were the huts, the paths and the water cisterns, but there, on the rooftop of the sick-house, and there on the thatch of the neighboring dwellings, a sickly yellow flame was burning.

Terror and fury burned low in his gut, and a sick sense of guilt that he might have done this, that in his haste to cleave the wards to make his own tasks easier, he might have allowed in the village’s enemies. But as he glanced upwards, he saw that the gold shimmering network of wards was intact, and his own magic firmly locked away by them. What the fuck is happening, then?

“Who?” he sputtered, reaching for both Elain and Briar, ready to drag them both behind him, or winnow them out if it came down to it. “Who could have done this?”

Elain was taking panicked, jagged breaths. “The people, Lucien — we have to save them!”

He turned fully towards her, grasping her hands. “I’ve got to get you back to the palace. Then I can return, and —“

“No.” Her hands slid around his in a restraining grip, her jaw set firmly. “I will help you.”

“Elain,” he pleaded. “I can’t guard you and help the village.”

“I don’t need guarding,“ she insisted stubbornly.

How could he make her understand? He’d failed to protect Jesminda, failed to protect Elain from the Cauldron, and again when she’d been captured by Hybern. He would die if harm came to her again, didn't she know that? “I must protect you and Briar.”

“And who is to protect you?” she challenged.

A man charged past him, a young girl bundled in his arms, intent on escaping, and nearly knocked him off his feet, but Lucien barely felt the impact. He was staring at Elain in shock, unable to muster any answer.

Briar tugged on his sleeve. “We must move to a safer position, while we figure out what to do,” she suggested.

“Yes, that is sensible,” he agreed, his breaths coming out jagged, shallow, as the air was pierced with screams and crying. “We’ll go to Fal and Linnet’s cabin.”

He went to take steps in that direction, only to find that Elain held him firmly. “You are not leaving us there and rushing off,” she warned him, shouting to make herself heard over the chaos. “Whatever we do, we plan it together.”

“Elain,” he begged. He could have torn himself away, could have pried her fingers off his wrist, but the thought of causing her physical pain was deeply distressing. He just had to make her understand. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened  — if I failed —“

There was a crash, and flames jumped higher into the air.

Fuck, he had to do something, and now.

“I have to take care of that fire. But I’m going to have to take the wards down to do it,” he shouted.

“You’ll do it from inside the cabin,” Elain shouted back.

He looked into her face, and fuck, if that wasn’t the Archeron Take-No-Shit look staring back at him.

“The cabin,” he agreed breathlessly, and then he had Elain in one arm, and Briar in the other, and he broke into a desperate run.

Chapter Text

Lucien hurtled down the path, breaths exploding from his lungs and gasping inwards, run, run, get them to safety —

Briar shrieked out a warning, but he didn’t turn. Couldn’t risk slowing down enough to look. Whatever it was, he could do nothing for it. Run, Cauldron damn it —

He stumbled, arms trembling with effort as he desperately tried to avoid dropping them, or plummeting to the ground and crushing them with his weight. Elain slid downwards, her feet landing on the dirt path alongside him, and she flung her arms around his middle, steadying his balance.

“Thank — “ he gasped, but there was no time to say it, no time to process that he was holding her, and she him. If he hadn’t been frantic, if his blood weren’t roaring, if his gut weren’t twisting with sick dread and anger, he would have savored it.

He bent his knees and burst forward, Briar slung over one shoulder and Elain bundled alongside him, and his strides kicked up dirt and grass as he burst against the cabin door, staggering inside it.

Briar’s feet hit the cabin floor and she stumbled forwards, and Elain leaped to catch her, while Lucien whirled around and made to slam the door, hoping to lock it. But he was drawn up short when he saw the fleeing mass of villagefolk behind him, crying out to each other as they ran, coughing, reaching out their arms to help each other, stooping to help younglings. And behind them, fire raged in the village, great plumes of smoke rising up in the air.

“How many — “ he tried, his throat burning. He swiped at his good eye, raw from the smoky air. “How many people can we fit in here?”

A sob escaped from Elain, but when she spoke, her voice was determined. “All of them.”

Of course the cabin was far too small, but how could they deny anyone sanctuary? How could they pick and choose whom to shelter, and whom to turn away?

He tore his eyes from the humans to stare at her, wanting to memorize every soft curve of her face, her vitality and warmth and kindness, to make it the last thing he saw before he plunged back into the fray. “You and Briar can get them settled. But if they squeeze in here, and then they panic —”

He broke off, unwilling to speak of such horrors. He’d seen how the fae trapped underground in Amarantha’s camps had sometimes been driven to panicked stampedes, surged against the walls and one another in a desperate squeeze, robbing the lungs of a way to get air, crushing each other underfoot as they clawed uselessly to escape.

Briar had launched into action, extinguishing the hearth, moving furniture aside, but now she came to them. “We’ll keep them calm,” she said firmly. “And find out what they know. Some of them might have seen what happened.”

Lucien agreed, “You must learn what you can. I’ll deal with the fire.”

Elain laid a hand on his shoulder. “You be careful.”

I can’t guarantee that, he wanted to protest, but how could he defy her?

“You too,” he croaked, then resolutely turned away, before he could give into the instincts roaring at him to grab her up in his arms, protect her with his body and his magic, and damn everyone else and the consequences.

A young woman was stumbling into the cabin, more people thundering in behind her, but Lucien anxiously elbowed his way through the crowd, knowing that this was all useless if the fire reached them. Fire. Why was the village on fire? He’d have thought it was too wet to burn —

He ran to the edge of the path, confronting the orange-lit, smoke-ridden sky. Flames licked at the treetops, thick billows of smoke choking the air, but somewhere beyond that were the village’s wards, the damper on magic. He’d wrestled with those wards before, tearing them open, but they’d closed tightly shut again, and he’d nearly drowned because of it.

This time, he had to cleave them entirely. But was he powerful enough to do it?

Of course you are, you’re a High Lord’s heir, damn it. That’s got to be good for something.

He closed his eyes, savoring the reprieve from the stinging caustic smoke, and reached down into himself, channeling all of his fear and rage. He would give every drop of that unearned power, if he had to. He would do this, whatever it cost him. For these innocents. For the younglings. For Briar, and Linnet, and dear old Fallon.

For Elain.

He flung out his hands, and yanked the wards down with a blinding burst of light.

He roared as they shattered, splintering into a glittering mess of tangling threads, and crashed to his knees as a hot ache erupted inside him, gripping and fierce and bright and wanting.

“Cauldron,” he gasped, clutching at his side, reeling as his mind tried to grasp at explanations. He shoved that impulse away. There was no time.

With the wards gone, his magic surged, tumultuous and demanding release. Hot, pulsating power danced under his skin, glowing and seething, and he bore down into it, praying he could control it, not incinerate the cabin he was standing near, but focus.

He thought frantically. What did they actually need from him?

Behind him, someone went into a gasping fit of coughing, and fear squeezed inside him. Air. They needed breathable air.

He exhaled in a great push, remembering the air shield he’d used in the lake. This was the same, wasn't it?

The wind kicked up about him, driving back the choking fumes and smoke, and he laughed idiotically, amazed that it had actually worked. The air sizzled and then abruptly cooled around him, popping unpleasantly in his ears. He ignored the cries of pain and alarm chorusing around him, focusing on strengthening the shield and expanding it outwards, so that it enveloped a perimeter well past the cabin, in case it got too crowded in there, after all.

He took in deep breaths, savoring the cleaner air, but his relief quickly turned to alarm as the wind whipped up around him, tousling his hair, snatching at the loose hem of his tunic, and thunder boomed overhead.

Cauldron help me, I’m going to lose it. He’d never practiced with this power, didn’t know how to truly control it. His left hand ached with phantom discomfort, reminding him to be fucking careful, that nothing and no one could disrupt his focus, or he would kill everyone he was trying to save.

You must wield better control over your gifts, his father had warned him, or you will be a danger to yourself and others.

Deep dread clawed his insides, his stomach churning with unretched bile, but Elain was suddenly kneeling beside him, gently brushing his arm. “Lucien?”

Don’t explode, don’t create storms, don’t hurt her, gods, don’t hurt her —

Another tender, maddening brush of her fingers. “Are you all right, Lucien?”

He didn’t dare look at her, but gritted out, “The air, I’m — can’t — can’t control it —”

His arm shook, but she did not recoil or back away as he might have expected. She held his arm, stopping it from trembling, steadying him. “You can. You are.”

He tried to ignore how stupidly good it felt to be near her, to feel her touch on him, and honed in on her words. “Never — I’ve never done this before,” he admitted. “What if I — “ He swallowed, feeling like all of the grit and ash from the fire was lodged in his throat. “I could kill people.”

Your intentions have always been good, she’d told him this morning. But intentions would matter little, if he fucked this up. What if he fed oxygen to the fire, made it even more vicious and all-consuming? What if his winds whipped it into a frenzy and spread it further? What if he smothered all these people, or exploded them by accident?

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw that Elain’s eyes were bloodshot, her beautiful face smeared with ash, the neckline of her dress soaked through with sweat. Yet for all that, she was smiling. “I trust you. We all do,” she said soothingly. “Whatever you’ve done, so far, it’s working.”

He tried to hear her over the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears. She trusts me.

He took in a rasping, brittle breath, feeling the winds die down around him, circulating into a gentler, more refreshing breeze. The humans’ screams had abated, the cabin almost silent, and he took another breath, and another, and held the shield steady. Only after more moments had passed did he dare rise from the ground, extending a hand to help Elain up beside him.

She took his offered hand and rose swiftly to her feet, nearly stumbling forward into him on the uneven ground. His hands shot out and caught her elbows, steadying her, and then to his shame, he caught himself staring. He forced his eyes away, before he did something he’d forever regret, and took more deep breaths until his instincts calmed and he could manage to regain his composure.

“Do we know how this happened,” he asked finally, miserable at how tense she felt beside him. He’d finally won some measure of trust from her, and now he was about to ruin it all by being too obvious, just like he had when the bond had been active.

She could go back to the cabin, if she wanted, some less frantic part of him reasoned. She is choosing to stay. And that thought comforted him.

“The people told us what they saw. But it’s all garbled, confusing,” Elain said, a note of worry entering her voice. “Half of them are convinced it was magic.”

Lucien frowned. “It couldn't have been magic. The wards were up until moments ago, when I removed them.”

“They’re saying they saw winged creatures, and others with webbing and frilled ears, and something huge and fanged and scaly. And a black horse, or a half-man and half-horse, stampeding about.” She shook her head worriedly. “A few even think they saw Tarquin.”

“What?” Lucien’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“They described his very likeness to me, and it did sound convincing. But I told them it couldn’t possibly be. That Tarquin wouldn’t even know where to find us, and his power is over water, not fire, anyway. I think they believed me, but…” She squinted up at him with concern. “What could have given them that impression?”

Lucien turned from the shield, satisfied now that it would hold without him having to continuously monitor it, and mulled over the strange details she’d given. Winged creatures was far too vague for any definitive identification. Webbing and frilled ears had to be water wraiths — he only hoped they were not Tiberius and Gracchus, whom he’d caught and freed yesterday. The scaled and fanged creature was probably a naga, a thought that profoundly displeased him. He’d fought too many of those during the dark days of Amarantha.

And the black half-horse… Shit.

“I hope the black horse wasn’t a puca. That’s their usual form, but they’re also shapeshifters,” he fretted. “You or I could see through their glamours, but humans would be fooled, I’m certain. Your sister was once tricked by one, back at Tamlin’s manor. He tried to lure her into the woods, by taking the guise of your father.”

“Oh! How horrid,” Elain exclaimed.

He nodded grimly. “There’s no end to the mischief a puca could get up to in a village full of skittish humans.”

Elain’s eyes got very wide and round. “He could make himself look like anyone, and they wouldn't be able to tell the difference!”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” Lucien’s mechanical eye clicked as it roved over the landscape, while he kept his good eye fixed on Elain. Now that the currents had settled, the world outside the air shield was again visible, and he could scan the nearby trees and paths for intruders, or stray humans that they hadn’t been able to rescue.

His blood chilled at the thought of that — of who might still be outside the shield, stranded and at the mercy of rampaging faeries. It was like every human nightmare come true, and exactly what they’d come here to avoid.

“We’ll have to have a code word, or a secret question,” Elain was saying. “So we’ll know if that puca’s trying to trick us.” But then another thought occurred to her. “Unless he's already inside the house with us? Causing us trouble, even now?”

“That’s a possibility,” Lucien said, proud of her cleverness, though he desperately hoped that her fears were unfounded. He wouldn’t dare leave the shield unattended, and he wasn’t keen on Elain encountering an intruder, either, even if she was stronger than any human in there. He wanted her here with him, where he could see her, know for sure she was all right.

And could he admit to himself that she calmed him, that he could think more clearly, focus his magic better, with her beside him? That he felt squeezed and agitated inside when she wasn’t?

Almost as though —

No. He ruthlessly shoved that thought away. This was not the time, not during a gods-damned battle. It was his stupid imagination, and his unsettled magic, and that was all.

Elain paced back and forth, clasping and unclasping her hands anxiously, as she tried to work out her thoughts. “But why would lesser fae attack the village? Even if they are rebels, it doesn’t make sense. These humans have hurt no one, and aren’t a threat to them.” She bit her lip, considering further. “Forta said they’re hard up for coin, that they blame humans for taking work away from them. Could that really be enough of a reason?”

“If they’ve been whipped into a frenzy over it? Told lies, given false promises?” Lucien had seen the effects of mistreatment, and poor education and prospects, on the lesser fae he’d known back in Autumn. It made them vulnerable to manipulation, a fact that unscrupulous folk were sure to exploit. “I’m sure their leaders gave them reasons aplenty.”

“I hope you don’t have to kill them,” Elain said, her lovely face so pale, so worried. “If they could be so easily tricked, they must have been desperate.”

His heart ached for her — how generous and loving she was, even towards those who didn’t deserve it. These faeries had attacked a defenseless village unprovoked, full of innocent humans, even children. The fact that they were downtrodden themselves went only so far.

Still, it wasn’t more than certain leaders had done, and who thought themselves justified in doing so, and up until now had never been punished.

“I’m not a judge or executioner. I will do what’s necessary to defend this village, and that’s all,” he assured Elain. “But I’m afraid there’s an even bigger problem.”

He reached out to still her movements, drawing her closer to him so that he could lower his voice. If he had another reason for wanting her near to him, he didn’t dare acknowledge it, not even to himself. “The wards were up when the faeries attacked. Which means someone from the village invited them.”

Elain let out a gasp. “Who would do that? Betray their own people?” She thought for a moment, but then her face hardened into an angry expression. “Those Mandrays. I bet it was Connal.”

“Who?” Lucien struggled to recall the name, running through his mental list of humans he’d interacted with over the last few days. “The drunkard woodcutter?”

“He’s been missing. And one of his sons too. And all while his grandson was sick,” Elain explained, her eyes blazing with fury.

Lucien frowned. The stupid oaf had seemed more clumsy than dangerous, especially once the axe had been wrenched from his hands. “Why would he do this?”

“I don't know. It doesn’t make sense. He hates all faeries, I doubt he’d seek them out,” Elain said.

“Was he part of the rebellion?” Lucien doubted Fallon would have allowed troublemakers to remain in the village. Unless, of course, the old captain had been too sick and weak to properly oust them.

“He doesn’t seem like the type to care, one way or the other. He, Jorah and Ronan stayed out of the War, when they could have fought actual enemies,” Elain mused. “But maybe he was angry with you, and wanted you gone. And me as well. He hates me, clearly.”

Lucien was aghast. “Who could hate you?”

Elain’s lower lip quivered. “Well, I — never mind. That’s not important.” She said it firmly, even as her voice trembled, as though anticipating he might argue. “Nesta almost married his son, back when we were poor and had no prospects. Tomas is lost, probably killed in the War. His family blames Nesta for it, he said so. They think she somehow secretly cursed him.”

“Oh, please. If Nesta wants someone dead, she tells them so outright,” Lucien scoffed. “She doesn’t resort to sneaking around, laying curses.” It was one of the things he actually liked about Nesta - one always knew where one stood with her. There was no pretense, no falseness. She was almost too honest for the Night Court. “And in any case, you’re not your sister. You’re not responsible for her actions.”

Elain looked like she might want to argue that point, but instead said forlornly, “I don’t understand, though. Connal lives here. He’s got children here, grandchildren. He wouldn’t be that awful, to put them in danger, burn down his own dwelling?”

“The intruders, or their leaders, probably tricked him. He probably thought he would lead them to you,” Lucien guessed, enraged at the thought that anyone would dare harm Elain. I should have killed that drunk idiot when I had the chance.

Elain gave a little cry, and he drew his arm around her, cursing himself for upsetting her further, and added quickly, “For all we know, it’s me they’re after. I’m the one who fought with him, after all.”

Movement at the edges of his vision drew his focus, and he pulled Elain more tightly to him. “There, do you see them?”

Elain’s answer was muffled, spoken into his shirt, but then she tilted her head up to face him. “Beneath those trees?”

Lucien braced himself as the air shield rippled, as the intruders began to pound on it, and he flung out a hand to focus his magic. He could almost hear his old tutors scolding him, chastising him for his over-reliance on physical gestures, but his air manipulation was too new and uncertain for him to do anything else. He kept one arm banded around Elain, comforted by her warm body pressed against him, even though he wished her far away and out of danger.

“Eight of them,” Elain reported. “Oh — where are they going?”

Lucien didn’t dare look, but closed his eyes, feeling the air swirling around him, sensing every ripple and current and eddy. The air told him everything, now that he knew he could listen. “They’re testing the shield. Looking for weak spots,” he said.

“How long can you hold the shield?” she asked him.

“Not forever,” Lucien said anxiously. Behind them, there were other voices - humans exclaiming, and arguing, and worrying about their friends and neighbors, and he prayed that he hadn’t gathered them together like lambs for the slaughter.

More pounding on the shield ensued, claws raking along the edges, and his body shivered in revulsion. “Oh, Lucien,” Elain murmured.

“I can’t do it. I can’t keep this up and fight them.” He swallowed thickly, his mouth and throat dry as paper. “There’s not even that many. They’re not that powerful. I could take them, but the villagers —“

“Don't,” Elain said. “You’ve bought us time. We’ll find a way to get them out.”

“We don’t know what’s beyond the village. There could be more attackers,” he said hoarsely. “These are civilians, Elain, they’re not soldiers who can follow orders.”

The air shield rippled, and Lucien clamped down, struggling as a hissing, whining wind whipped overhead. “Damn it —“

Elain pressed a hand to the ground. “Something’s wrong.”

The shield wavered a second time, and Lucien fought to maintain it. “You can say that again —“

“No,” she said, her voice rising. “Something’s wrong with the grass.”

“What?” He glanced over at her, then cursed soundly as the air pulsed, as though it were being forced inwards. He clenched his teeth, throwing his power outwards, willing the shield to expand again.

“It’s limp. It’s wilting. How could that happen?” Elain asked. She took a few steps in one direction, then another. “All the plants - the trees too. They’re dying, Lucien!”

At that moment, Lucien didn’t give a shit about the vegetation, but he tried to focus on what she was saying — on the implications of it. “What’s wrong with them?”

Elain was running her fingers over the ground, digging them into the soil. “Dry as sand,” she said. “There’s no water.”

“No water? But this is a rainforest. It was muddy, it was raining,” he protested. “How could all the water just — Oh.” The truth of it slammed into him. “Elain, we need to gather everyone. Quickly.”

Her lovely face was so, so pale. “Why?“

He stared out at the edge of the shield, where a wall of water was growing upwards, pulsing against it, forming a whirlpool. “I think we’re about to meet Tarquin’s challenger.”

Chapter Text

Lucien’s limbs ached, his throat on fire, as he held the shield with all his strength, through every wave of assault against it. He didn’t dare let his focus slip, not for a moment. A skilled water-wielder could suck moisture from anything undefended. If this usurper lashed out at the villagers, what horrors would result from it? There would remain naught but desiccated husks, not even enough moisture to properly rot.

He tightened his hold on his magic, feeding pulse after pulse into the shield, more, more, until his knees wobbled and his lungs felt bereft of air. Behind him, Elain was giving urgent orders, commanding the folk to gather their younglings, assigning able-bodied folk to assist the injured, but the commotion faded out to a buzzing confusion as more power slammed against Lucien's shield, first in one place and then another, systematically searching for weakness.

“Elain,” he croaked out, twisting just enough to throw his voice towards the mass of exclaiming, anxious people, and she was immediately beside him. “You and Briar get them out of here. Get Lyra to show you the paths through the forest.”

“But what about you?” Elain’s voice was so sweet and plaintive, it made his heart ache.

“I’m going to hold them off,” Lucien said, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt the shield starting to buckle on one side, directing more power in that direction. “And I’m going to keep their focus on me, distracting them long enough for you to escape. You’ll take the spelled parchment, contact the palace —“

“No.” He didn’t look towards her, for he knew he wouldn’t be able to tear his gaze away once he did. But he imagined that her jaw was firmly set, her eyes flashing with anger. “We said we were doing this together.”

He quelled his flash of impatience, both charmed and vexed by her determination. “We are. We’re carrying out a plan, one that will only succeed if we split up. You’ll all be safer out in the forest.”

“Lucien —“

“Elain, please. Please, listen.” He took a jagged breath, trying to summon the perfect words to convince her through the haze of his panic. “You’ve helped me so much in this crisis already. Now help me with this one last thing, I am begging you.” He knew he sounded desperate, pathetic, but at that moment he didn’t care. “There’s about to be a fight, a vicious one, and I can't have non-combatants near it. You’ll all become targets, hostages to be used against me. Or you’ll be killed, and I can’t —“ He broke off in a shuddering, agonized sob.

She spoke again, softly. “I won’t let these people become targets, or get in the way of the fight. That would only put you in greater danger. I will help them through the forest.” Though he could hear the tremulous worry, the echoes of memories of invasion and war and terror in Elain’s voice, he could feel her strength and resolve, too. “It is a good plan. I hope I can pull it off.”

Lucien nodded, his heart in his mouth. He'd barely had any time with her — one lovely night and one terrifying day, and the thought of parting from her physically pained him. Yet he’d had his glimpse, his one bittersweet taste. He would be tempting the Fates and the Cauldron to want more.

He risked a glance at her, finding her tearstained and flushed, one cheek smeared with ash, her expression so worried and angry, and lovelier than ever. “You’ll succeed,” he said gently. “I trust you.”

Elain’s slender fingertips pressed into his shoulder, and then she was up on her tiptoes. She brushed her lips to his cheek, and a moment later, she was gone.

Every part of him was left reeling with desire, his fists clenching as he clamped down on his instincts, before he could lunge for her and drag her back to him. How could he just let her walk away? How could he have begged her to do it, when all he wanted was to hold her, protect her?

You couldn’t protect Jesminda, either.

He closed his eyes against it all, his cheek hot and tingling. He forced bone-dry air into his lungs, then forced it out again, and again, his insides aching from the effort, squeezing tighter with every passing second.

Fuck, he had to get himself under control. He was no good to anyone distracted. And as if to hammer the point home, the air shield rippled, alarming him back to full alertness.

“Stupid bastards,” he grumbled, corralling his magic, repelling the assault. Whoever the challenger was, he had strong magic - almost unnaturally strong, even for an heir. For the first time ever, Lucien was grateful for his own birthright, that he was an heir himself and not just a throwaway son, the runt of the litter - or else he’d never have the power to stand his ground.

Thank the Cauldron I rested. And Elain, for insisting on it.

He breathed more deeply, keeping his eyes shut, letting the flow of air guide him rather than trusting his muddled senses. Pressure was building up outside the shield, a relentless onslaught of water, and Lucien realized that he had to draw the air back in, to spread the shield over a smaller surface area, or weak spots would eventually open. It would allow the intruders to force him into close combat, but even there, he had options. He could get a better look at them, anyway.

He extended his hands, and yanked the air towards him, whipping up a whirling breeze that shattered the built-up wall of water. It swirled wildly, splashing in all directions, and for one terrifying moment, Lucien thought he might drown in it. Wouldn’t that be an unsatisfying end to it all — to avoid drowning in the lake this morning, only to succumb on dry land now?

He concentrated on holding the shield steady, though his power strained and jolted inside him, demanding more. It wanted to burn, and sear, and explode. Not yet, he coaxed it back. Let’s see who we’re dealing with.

He could see them now — a motley array of opponents, just as Elain had described them. There were only four or five of them, though, which worried him. Where were the others? He felt no disturbances in the air, no hints that they were lying in wait and ready to pounce. What if they’d gone off to attack more humans?

He stared at the ones he could see, worry knotting in the pit of his stomach. They were staring at him too, sizing him up, apparently not liking their chances against him, for none of them rushed forward.

From somewhere unseen came a jet of water, flinging itself towards Lucien, who grunted and batted it away with an upwelling of air, breathing heavily.

Another blast of water hurtled towards him, and this time he let it splash against his air shield, then flicked his fingers, evaporating all of the droplets to steam, then used his air manipulation to disperse them.

That was a revelation, one he would have to remember. What other ways were there to combine his powers?

A different voice, behind some other obstacle, barked, “You lot! Kill him. Quickly.”

“That’s not very sporting,” Lucien protested, annoyed, as the intruders trained their glares on him and began to charge forwards. He scanned them quickly, sizing them up, not knowing whether to be relieved or very worried that no naga or puca were among them. They were a rag-tag group of water wraiths -- thankfully none he recognized — and insect-winged folk that looked almost familiar. Refugees from the Spring Court? He dreaded having to tell Tamlin.

He flung the first faerie back easily, then the second, watching as the others stumbled back, reconsidering their chances. This was almost too easy, like they were trying to goad him into massacring the lot of them.

Maybe that’s exactly what they are doing.

The fighters were merely following their orders, but Lucien couldn’t begin to guess at what the leaders were up to, sacrificing their people in an obviously mismatched fight. Did they want him to seem cruel and awful, so they could rally even more vulnerable people to their cause? Or had these folk simply outlived their usefulness?

“You’ve got the power to shield yourself, and strike at me,” he called out to the leaders. “Why are you putting them in such danger?”

“You’ve always been a pain in the ass,” snarled one of the leaders, still stubbornly hidden. Coward.

The other one issued a barked order. “Go find the girl. This is pointless otherwise.”

The girl? Lucien wondered furiously if they meant Elain. She was hardly a girl, but who else could they be targeting? He almost dashed off through the forest then, but clamped down on that instinct. What if he led them right to her?

One of the downed males was rubbing his head with a webbed hand, whining, “My Lord, surely we were mistaken—“

"You forget yourself, Quintus,” the leader said sharply. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

Quintus. Lucien knew that name, and his heart was heavy to hear it. He’d promised Fulvia that he would try to intercede on her husband’s behalf, in exchange for her help and information. But he would never be able to get the fellow a full pardon now, not after he’d attacked a defenseless village.

“Quintus,” he called out, wondering how well he could be heard outside the air shield, whether there was some special technique to making his voice carry. If there was, he’d never had a chance to learn it. He tried to make his voice come out firm, authoritative, the way he always had with Tamlin’s sentries. “Quintus, come closer, be a good fellow.”

To his surprise, Quintus listened. Grudgingly, as though hearing his name spoken had summoned him against his will, the male was taking paces forward.

Lucien matched the gesture, trying to make his tone light, conversational. “You’re worrying your wife exceedingly. If Fulvia knew you were here, what you’ve done, what would she say to it?”

A few of the other intruders were already tromping off through the trees, dutifully following their orders, but now they stopped, flummoxed to hear one of their own addressed so familiarly. Lucien poured on the sympathy, sensing that he had a chance to persuade them. “She feels guilty, you know, that times have been hard. She blames herself for your dismissal.”

“Shut up,” Quintus snapped, his frilled ears going pink. He glanced around furtively, as though he didn’t want the rest of his companions to hear this, much less the leaders. “You know nothing.”

“I know you need a new roof,” Lucien said mildly. “And a better-paying job. And I know you’re not going to get either by killing humans.”

Quintus opened his mouth, then shut it again. Lucien didn’t dare hope that he was actually considering the words, but at the very least, this was a spectacle. The more eyes he kept on himself, the safer it would be for Elain and the others.

“Did I tell you all to stand around? They’re getting away. The girl must be with them,” snapped one of the leaders, still behind the trees. “Why are you heeding this blithering idiot?”

Some of the lesser fae began to shift about, as though torn between obeying him and staying to watch what happened next. But Lucien kept his focus on the leaders. “You sound familiar, but I can’t place you. Are you planning on hiding back there forever?”

The male growled a low warning.

But Lucien’s eyes were on the sky, on the fire leaping up high into the treetops.

Lucien gritted his teeth. They must have dried this area to a desert, if it’s all burning that easily.

He flung out his magic, desperate to contain the blaze, but it was too entrenched, too hot and dry, and whatever flickers of flame he was able to stifle, there were more, so many more. He needed to switch tactics, take control of the flames themselves, but his magic felt all twisted up and confused inside him, and the fire didn’t want to obey him. He could almost hear Beron Vanserra cackling from Hell.

“Why don’t you come out, you cowards,” Lucien shouted, having to raise his voice to be heard above the crackling fire. If he wasn’t able to snuff out the flames, he thought darkly, that might force them from their hiding places, at least.

He could feel their indecision, and decided to press the point further. “Show yourselves, or do you believe your cause so unjust? Perhaps your followers should just go home.”

He was met with a pensive, unnerving silence.

“How do you expect to challenge Tarquin, if you can’t even deal with me out in the open,” he called out mockingly. An idea was beginning to form in his mind, and he made his voice come out gleefully proud, dripping with disdain. “You’re nobodies pretending at greatness. The magic passed you over, poor things, which means you're too weak to be a true threat. Maybe Tarquin won’t even bother. His High Lady should be more than sufficient. Yes, I think he’ll let Cresseida get rid of you —“

He abruptly cut off, shielding as water shot towards him, then barely had time to duck and dodge as fighters streamed out of the forest towards him on some shouted command. There were way more than the eight Elain had counted, a bewildering array of High Fae and lesser faeries, and Lucien’s mind emptied of all thought and strategy as the need to survive took over. He blocked and parried, and fired blasts of air, and rolled and jumped, and flung opponents back towards their fellows. He staggered, then twisted, then shoved them back bodily, always just keeping their blows at bay, always just fending off assaults one after the other.

How long can this go on?

He didn’t have time to guess at an answer. Faces loomed in his vision, fists and feet and even elbows, swords and daggers. He was unarmed, but even if he’d had a sword or dagger, would he really be able to fend off so many?

He grabbed the fire from the trees and sent it along the curved surface of his air shield, heating the air and then igniting it. Fires leaped up all around him, the grass under his feet spontaneously bursting with heat, thick black pungent smoke roiling out like a hazy curtain of poisoned shadows.

Suddenly, his gut twisted in a wrenching, throbbing stab of agony, and his body electrified with terror. He hadn’t felt like this in ages, not since the mating bond had been broken. Oh gods, if he’d failed, if something happened to Elain —

He screamed as the magic churned within him, around him, blasting so hot that the air shimmered and hazed over, and pain erupted through his whole body as his power exploded outwards.

Then there were many screams, chaos erupting, and Lucien blinked in dazed confusion, stumbling a few steps one way and then another. His limbs were shaking, his skin glowing intensely, his insides feeling raw and scoured. He didn’t dare look down at himself, didn’t want to know how bad the damage must be. His shield was down, but no new assault came, and he staggered a few more steps before sinking down to his knees, clutching at his ribs as though grabbing onto the end of a tether.

Then someone was on him, grabbing him up firmly with strong hands, and he twisted and flailed with desperation. No, it couldn’t end like this, couldn’t end with him captured, he’d be able to help no one if that happened. “Elain,” he cried out, trying to fling out more of his power, only to find he was utterly depleted.

“— fucking idiot,” came a hissed voice, a strangely familiar face swimming in his vision.

“Eris?” Lucien squinted, trying to make his eyes focus. Eris was glowing white-hot, his amber eyes blazing with fury.

“I need to take care of all this,” Eris said grimly, extending a hand upwards, indicating the burning trees. “Do you have him?”

A deep, resonant voice vibrated through Lucien as the male holding him answered. “I’m going to take him back to the palace —“

“No,” gasped Lucien, flailing uselessly, but he was too weak to fight the grip holding him still. “Elain and Briar — the humans, I have to — in danger —“

Eris cursed, and shouted commands over his shoulder, before turning back to Lucien with a murderous expression. “This is not over, little brother.”

Then he stood up and stalked away, beckoning the flames towards him without so much as raising an eyebrow. The flames leaped and danced, straining eagerly to obey, drawn towards Eris’s pure glowing power. Lucien let out a shaky exhale as the fires consuming the forest dwindled to a low simmer, then extinguished themselves completely, wreathing around the High Lord of Autumn before settling down as an incandescent sheen under his pale skin.

Then Eris was moving, barking orders, and Lucien became aware that there were others, that Eris had come with reinforcements. That the village was being rescued.

A deep, desperate gratitude welled up inside him, all tangled up with fear for Elain and the folks she’d led into the forest. Lucien shoved again, needing to get to her, to do something, but the voice admonished, “Don’t move. You are injured.”

“What’s —“ Lucien swallowed, his throat jagged as though he’d swallowed broken glass, tilting his head backwards to try to see who was with him. The world spun, a wave of dizziness making the ground shift beneath him, and his hands shot out, grasping at nothing.

“Lie still,” the voice snapped, “or I’ll cast binding spells around you.”

Lucien tensed, startled as hell to find Helion’s dark eyes staring intently at him.

What the hell is he doing here? With Eris, of all the damned people? Lucien groaned and lay back, too exhausted to fight anymore.

“You caused us much worry,” Helion said gravely. His face blurred and then refocused. He was wearing no crown, no adornments, but had all of his hair pulled back into braids, as though he’d been preparing for combat. “When you did not return to the palace last night, we almost came after you then. Perhaps we should have. If we’d only known where.”

“Village — was warded,” Lucien explained, waving his hand aimlessly at the destruction around him. “Hidden.”

Helion was looking around with a thoughtful expression, examining the area. “Yes, so the sentries told us. This warding is strange indeed. Or what echoes remain of it. You cleaved through the spells?”

Lucien nodded.

“Yes, of course.” Helion’s voice was tinged with a quiet approval, but then the tone became brisk again. “Your message said that it blocked all your power? That only Elain’s Made magic could counteract it?”

Lucien was surprised by the question. When did we start sharing Consortium correspondence with him? But if Eris now trusted Helion enough to work with him, perhaps they had been making diplomatic progress of their own, even as he and Elain had been trying to charm the humans. “Hybern’s magic,” he said worriedly. “I’ve felt it before.”

“If true, that is concerning indeed.” Helion lowered Lucien carefully onto the grass, which felt dry and scratchy as years-old straw. “You are not healing.”

Lucien winced as the raw skin of his arm accidentally made contact with the ground, sending a searing ache through it. “Not yet, I — used too much power.”

Helion let out a soft curse, then pressed his broad hands to Lucien’s skin. The strangeness of the situation, the intimacy of the gesture, made him want to flinch away, but Helion said gruffly, “Hold still, or I can’t heal you.”

“Don’t bother,” Lucien grumbled.

His father’s face was tight, his eyes full of anger and pain. “You are still angry.”

Lucien’s mechanical eye buzzed at him, as though in answer.

Helion sighed, swiping a hand over his face. “I should not have expected different.” He shook his head, as though silently scolding himself. “But I will heal you, for all the times I could not before.”

Lucien lay back, unable to muster a response. He didn’t know what he thought about it all, about what it would have been like to have a father who wanted to heal him, instead of being the source of the pain. He didn’t know if he wanted Helion’s efforts, now after all this time, if it would make everything better, or hurt that much more for having been absent all his life.

Apparently his non-answer was answer enough. Helion’s magic poured into him, soothing and cooling his damaged flesh, and Lucien found that he could breathe more deeply, and lay back more comfortably.

But then he was jolted again, this time by a deep anxiety that no magic could alleviate. “Elain,” he groaned weakly. “Is she —“

“Shh. Do not exert yourself,” Helion murmured. “We picked up her trail into the forest.“

“I need to find her. Now.” Lucien leaped up, ignoring his residual soreness, his heart stuttering with panic.

Helion huffed a frustrated sigh. “Are you always this disobedient?”

“Yes.” Lucien brushed ash and straw from his clothes, taking in the village in its full state of disarray. There were shouts and clamor, humans and fae alike rushing about, the distant sound of Jurian calling out orders. Overhead, Vassa was circling in her firebird form, glowing radiant above the treetops, then suddenly dove downwards and out of view.

“Magnificent,” Helion said, then cleared his throat awkwardly. “She’s found the bastards who attacked you, I expect.”

A deafening roar shook the trees, and Lucien jolted towards the familiar sound, not knowing whether to be relieved or very, very nervous.

Helion cursed, grabbing Lucien before he could run in that direction. “No.”

Lucien yanked at his arm, his desperation rising. “I have to.”

“Then we will winnow to a safe location,” his father said firmly. “And you will not do anything reckless.” Lucien stared up at him, the question lingering unspoken between them, until he added, “I promised your mother I would bring you back in one piece. And I will not fail her. Not this time.”

Before Lucien could answer, or even process the implications, Helion’s magic swirled around them both, winnowing them away.

Chapter Text

Lucien stumbled, his hands flailing about in the air before latching onto nearby tree branches, before Helion’s strong hands reached out to steady him. “Where's Tamlin,” he croaked out, looking around wildly for the source of the bellowing roars. They were in an unfamiliar part of the forest, with paths meandering in several directions, and he could hear footsteps crunching, and soft murmuring human voices that turned fearful with shouts of alarm. “Need to — calm him —“

He knew why Tamlin was here, in the forest. It could only be that he was looking for Briar. Surely he’d been frantic last night, when she hadn’t returned to the palace. But what if he found her injured or worse, and lost control? That would be a disaster, both for the future of human-fae relations, and for Tamlin’s own safety.

And what if Elain was caught in the crossfire? What if she was hurt, or captured? Lucien pitched forward, intending to run down one of the forest paths, hoping it would lead him to her, for he felt strangely pulled in that direction.

Helion’s hands clamped around him. “Stay still, you’re exhausted.”

“Don’t care,” Lucien grumbled, trying to shove out of his father’s hold. Cauldron damn it, why did Helion have to choose now to show interest, meddle in his son’s affairs? What if this delay cost him everything? Would Lucien be forced to watch as Elain suffered, yet again?

Lucien heated up the surface of his skin, hoping to force Helion to let him go, but his father only hissed in annoyance, his own hands starting to glow with magic. “You have much to learn about Day Court power, if you thought that would work on me,” he growled in Lucien’s ear.

The ground rumbled, and the trees thrashed violently as Tamlin burst through them, his massive furred body slick with dark red splashes, his maw of sharp fangs stained with the same blood. Lucien sucked in a sharp breath, the sight of his old friend in his beast form bringing up memories of chasing down Amarantha’s creatures in the Spring Court forests, and of unpleasanter times when Tamlin had been despondent, out of control. What would he be like, if he lost Briar?

The beast that was Tamlin tossed his antlers, sending a tree toppling, then bounded off down the path Lucien had spotted, kicking up splatters of mud in his wake, and disappeared with a rustling of leaves.

“Please,” Lucien cried, trying and failing to lunge forward again. “Please, I must follow him.”

The roaring abruptly ceased, the forest suddenly still and silent, and Lucien’s heart hammered in his chest as he strained to see what might be happening.

“This is a good sign, I think. It seems that things are more stable,” Helion murmured. He stepped back, his hand hovering over Lucien’s shoulder, then jerking away before he made contact, as though Lucien’s skin might burn him, after all. “If you insist on remaining here for a while, perhaps Tamlin can winnow you back with the humans, if your magic needs more time to replenish. Or Tarquin once he’s done with his challenger.”

“Wait,” Lucien blurted, suddenly overcome with confusion. He had a million questions for Helion — are you now allied with the Consortium? Did you specifically come here to help me? What’s going on between you and my mother? What don’t I know about Day Court magic? Are you actually going to be my father?

Helion’s deep eyes were averted, as though he were suddenly embarrassed. That was entirely strange, for Lucien hadn't thought the male capable of it. Helion was always so absurdly preening and confident, so unapologetic about who he was and what he wanted, that it was strange to see him faltering, tentative. It made him seem like less of a High Lord, more of a person.

Do I want to see him as a real person? It was easier to resent Helion the High Lord, whose persona dripped with hedonistic arrogance and power, than it was when he was revealed a flesh-and-blood male with regrets and hesitations.

“I should fill Áine in on what’s happened,” Helion said quietly, into the hollow space where Lucien’s questions floated wordlessly, unasked but somehow perceived nonetheless. “I’ll let her know that I’ve seen you safe, so she will not make herself sick with worry.”

Lucien stared down at his sandals, once again mud-coated and splattered in battle filth. “She has done that on my account far too often, over the centuries. I have brought her nothing but pain and ruin.”

Suddenly Helion was right in front of him, gripping his shoulders, his gaze searing in its intensity. “Your mother told me that, in her darkest hours, it was for your sake that she kept going, when all else in her life seemed bleak and hopeless. She loves you, more than herself, and would endure any pain if it would spare you.”

“What did I ever do to earn that,” Lucien lamented, hating the thought of his mother enduring any pain whatsoever, especially for his sake.

His father practically glowed with pent-up anger, snarling, “What makes you think you have to earn love from your parents? Did that excuse for a male warp your idea of family so badly, with his cruelty and malice?” He released Lucien abruptly, turning away, speaking his next words into the darkening, murmuring forest. “There is too much to undo, too many layers. I do not know where to begin.”

Lucien’s body felt squeezed, his heart swollen too large for the space it occupied in his chest. He stammered, “Maybe — maybe here.”

Helion turned, and the expression on his face was so hopeful, so earnest, that Lucien almost couldn’t bear it. He’d assumed that Helion wouldn’t want to deal with him at all, that he would always be a reminder of his father’s pain and suffering, that Helion might even blame him for being the cause of the broken mating bond. It had never occurred to him that Helion might want a connection.

Then he lurched forward, his ribs aching, his whole body yanked forcefully in one direction, and he blurted, “Elain — she is close, I can feel her —“

Helion nodded, his clever eyes scanning Lucien and the surrounding forest. “Yes, I see that.”

You do? Lucien was too stunned to form the words to ask him.

“It seems we have more in common than I even thought,” Helion was saying, more to himself, but then he gave Lucien a smile that was softer and more genuine than Lucien had ever seen. “May the Mother bestow success on both of our efforts.” Then he winnowed away, leaving Lucien alone to stare after him.

Wait, what the fuck does that mean, he wanted to scream out, but he couldn’t spare any more thought for his father at that moment, not when Elain was somewhere in this forest, and he had to find her, get her out of danger.

He dug deep into his depleted magic, and winnowed, letting his instincts guide him. The forest blurred out, then rematerialized around him, and he swayed on his feet, hoping he wouldn’t collapse from the effort. It was a little too close to another time he’d exhausted himself, winnowing again and again to go to her, but he shoved aside those memories for the moment. He could relive that horror after he’d found her, after she was safe and back with her people.

“Lucien?” a sweet, tremulous voice called out.

His head whipped around with dizzying speed, forcing him to clutch at the trees to try to stay on his feet. “Elain?” he gasped, swallowing roughly, scanning the trees until he saw a flash of movement.

Then, oh gods, she was running towards him, her loose hair streaming out behind her, one hand clutching the torn skirt of her yellow sundress, the other extended towards him. “Lucien!”

His body flooded with a delicious relief, she is here, she is safe, and he longed to run to her, sweep her up in his arms and breathe her scent in. He had been a fool to ever leave her, or send her away, or do anything except stay with her and protect her, and yet here she was, calling his name.

But then he recalled what danger they'd been in, the protocol they were meant to be following, and his panic flared. What if he’d been an enemy, and she was rushing headlong into a trap? She had to be more cautious than this. “No, don’t, Elain,” he cried, flinging out his hands towards her, trying to ward her off. “Ask me the password!”

Elain didn’t break her stride, but laughed as she bounded forward, though her lovely face was pinched, like she'd been frowning. What had happened to her, out here in the forest? He tried not to let his anxiety overwhelm him.

“I don't need to prove that you’re you,” Elain scoffed, “I just know it.”

Then she was at his side, her soft lovely warmth pressing against him, her arms around him, and his thoughts stuttered wildly as he struggled to process it. She was breathing too fast, her arms trembling slightly, but she was here and safe, and gods, she’s touching me.

His arm hovered in the air for too long before daring to make contact, lightly pressing into her back. He couldn't scare her away now, couldn’t make her think he wanted too much, for wasn’t that why she’d avoided him to begin with? “Don’t be so trusting,” he scolded her gently. “I could be an enemy.”

Elain’s chin jutted into his collarbone as she tilted her face up to him. “The puca tried to fool me already. It got your scars and eye all wrong, but I would have known it wasn’t you regardless.”

Oh, Cauldron. How many of the people did it fool? He was grateful Elain hadn’t been taken in. But how could she have been so certain? How close had she gotten to its lying face, to realize his eye and scars weren't accurate?

He began to protest, to tell her she had to be more suspicious, but she pointed out, “Besides, you didn’t ask me the password just now, either.”

He had to smile at that. Cauldron drat it, she was too clever. “You’ve got me there. I’d like to think I would recognize the real you anywhere.”

To his chagrin, tears slipped down her cheeks. No, please, he silently begged her. He’d meant it as a compliment, as an expression of friendship, but how had she taken it? He was supposed to be so charming, so diplomatic, but when it came to Elain, his efforts always felt inadequate.

But then her arms tightened around him, drawing their bodies close together, and he barely suppressed a groan as her soft curves brushed against him, her cheek pressed to his chest. She’d once said she could hear his heartbeat — she must hear it now too, skittish and thunderous.

He realized then that he had tensed, that he was being awkward, and tried consciously to relax his muscles. He let his arms press around her, tucking her head snugly under his chin, savoring her warmth against his chilled body, and Elain gave a tiny contented sigh and nestled into him.

Gods, was there any feeling more perfect than this? It felt so right, he knew it had to be wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He would hold her, just for this moment, feel the perfection of her body fitting with his, and he would dry her tears, and smooth out the rough awfulness of the day. He would tuck this feeling into the most secret depths of his soul, to carry around safely forever, to know that just once he’d held his mate in his arms, and she had wanted his touch, welcomed it.

Just this once, he warned himself. He could not be greedy, could not grasp for more than this, or he’d ruin his moment, and all moments afterwards. She was not his, and never would be. Soon enough she would pull away, and he could have nothing to say about it. He could not beg her to stay close to him, to throw away her marriage or life with her sisters. Just this would be enough to rouse her husband’s jealousy and suspicion, and he would not sabotage her happiness for his own selfish desires.

Lucien breathed in roughly, and Elain lifted her head, her brows adorably scrunching together. He tried not to blush as her eyes scanned him, knowing he probably looked awful, filthier than when she’d dragged him from the lake, and probably bruised up and burned and bloodied. She’s married to a warrior, she’s probably used to it, he told himself, but emphatically failed to find that comforting.

She pulled back, and he steeled himself, trying not to mourn the loss of her warmth surrounding him. “You ought to rest,” she told him, starting towards the edge of the path, then turning back to frown at him. “You should be checked by a healer.”

He shook his head firmly. “We should save their efforts for the injured who need it.” Eos and her cadre would be inundated with patients, and the humans didn’t have natural healing magic.

“Are you certain?” Elain’s plump lips pressed tightly together.

Stop staring at her lips, idiot.

“Very certain,” he murmured. He found himself stepping closer again, grasping at her elbows, running his thumbs over her bare skin. She looked so worried, so sweetly concerned for his well being, that he would have done anything at all to soothe her. Just this once, he reminded himself, as much as she allows it.

But then his fingers skimmed a bit higher, where the skin of her arms was unexpectedly marred with jagged, red-tinged gashes, like the claws of some vile creature had dragged through the flesh, and he froze. “Elain! You’ve been injured,” he exclaimed, his heart pounding in terror. Gods, how much of an ass was he, that he'd utterly failed to take care of her sooner? “How did this happen?”

“What?” Elain gazed down at herself, as though she’d forgotten all about the wounds, though they must have hurt like hell. “Oh, I suppose the naga did that when —“

“A naga?” Lucien’s hands gripped her more firmly, drawing her towards him, his head swiveling as he checked the forest. Cauldron damn him, he’d sent her off into the wilds, to be clawed by fucking nagas. Elain, of all people, who'd actually been sympathetic to their cause, who’d hoped to spare the rebels from harsh punishment even after they’d committed unprovoked violence.

A fury rose up inside him, threatening to burn his restraint down to ashes. “I never should have exposed you to this danger. I should have taken you back to the palace.”

Lucien examined her closely, looking for where else she might have been injured. He carefully braced a hand on her jaw, tilting her head to the side, baring the elegant column of her throat, the slight dip near her collarbone, where he’d so often fantasized about kissing her. The thought of some vile creature’s claws grabbing her there, shaking her like a rag doll, slicing through her lovely soft flesh, made him murderous. “Whoever threatened or hurt you, I’ll kill them.”

Elain had been staring up at him, her beautiful eyes wide with surprise, but now she laid a tender hand over his own, stirring tingles beneath his skin. “You did what you had to do, to protect us all.”

Lucien resisted the urge to close his eyes, to sink down into the bliss of hearing her praise him. “If I were any good at protecting, I would have found a way to prevent this attack,” he whispered, carefully tilting her head in the other direction. Surely she’d know if she had a naga bite, surely she wouldn’t be calmly standing here talking to him, but he wouldn’t rest until he’d confirmed it.

Even under the darkening sky, he could see that Elain was flushed, that the way he was handling her was too intimate and suggestive. Gods, what the fuck was he even doing, staring at her neck?

He felt heat rising to his face, blood roaring in his ears. He was flooded with familiar, long-suppressed instincts, a river of longing that threatened to carry him away. Touch her, hold her, protect her —

Lucien wrenched his gaze from her smooth delectable skin, before he did something unforgivable, like press his lips to it.

He forced his eyes upwards, and there was Elain, looking forthrightly at him, as though he weren’t falling to pieces right there in front of her. “Listen to me, Lucien.”

Her hands twined around his, gently but firmly, and what could he do but surrender?

“You can’t keep blaming yourself for everything,” Elain said. “I am a Seer, and I didn't See this. So I don’t know how you could have known, either.”

Gods, he hoped he hadn’t made her feel guilty, or somehow blame herself for this travesty. No, better to keep the focus on his own shortcomings, to make sure she understood that she wasn’t responsible.

“Maybe not, but I’m tired of the people I care about getting hurt, and not being able to stop it from happening,” he said miserably. “I’m tired of always making the wrong choices.”

Elain’s fingers tightened around his, which was distracting as hell, but also comforting. “You can make the best possible choices you’re given, and it still won't be perfect,” she assured him. “We only had moments to decide what to do, and we both did the best we could at the time.”

That’s never been enough before, he thought sourly, but didn’t dare say so.

“I’m not happy that I left you alone. But if I hadn’t, the rebels would have gotten Lyra,” Elain went on. “And that puca might have gotten away with pretending to be you.”

“They wanted Lyra?” He stared at her dumbly, his mind swirling with questions. “Where is she now?”

“Far away in the forest, I hope. I lost track of them when the naga attacked me.”

Right. When I sent her out here, defenseless, to be slaughtered. He growled low in his throat, half-tempted to go stalking through the undergrowth, to hunt down those monsters that had dared to touch her.

Elain said, “I am well, I promise. It was only a short altercation - the naga barely touched me.”

Lucien had seen and experienced too many naga attacks, and their aftermaths, to find that comforting. “You’d be dead otherwise,” he muttered, clenching his fingers around hers.

“Perhaps,” Elain admitted, “but that didn’t happen. The other rebels heeded my warnings, and stopped him before he could really hurt me.”

“Then you got through to them. They were wise to listen.” Perhaps they’d been impressed with her kindness and beauty, or she’d Seen something specific to say to them? “I tried to talk to the rebels too. They have been fed many destructive lies, led to believe that they’ll receive true freedom, and ensnared by the worst kind of deceptive bargains. But these so-called leaders have no intention of changing things for lesser faeries. They’re only being used as arrow fodder.”

The cynical, world-weary part of Lucien doubted that pattern would ever change, even if humans and lesser fae were given rights in principle. They would forever remain at a disadvantage, with no magic to defend themselves or meet their families’ needs, and would always be vulnerable to the schemes and predations of their supposed betters.

Elain’s eyes narrowed, as though she shared his anger at the injustice of it. “Did we capture the leaders?”

“I don't know,” Lucien admitted, not knowing how to explain the rush of panic, the deep sense that she was in danger, and how he’d lashed out in reaction. “I blasted the forest right before help arrived - it put me out of commission. I didn’t see what else happened.”

Elain’s lovely face paled. “Then you do need a healer.”

Lucien waved that suggestion away, guilt tugging at him that she’d been in danger, and injured, and yet she was wasting energy on concern for him. “No, I’m really fine, Helion healed my injuries.”

She bit her lip, seemingly debating whether to believe him. You’re staring at her lips again, he chastised himself.

“You’re certain?” He nodded, and her shoulders dropped, a small sigh escaping her, before she scrunched her nose again. “Wait, did you say Helion? I didn’t write to him, just the Consortium. I didn't know that he was an ally.”

Lucien had to chuckle at that.

“I didn’t either,” he told Elain, half-tempted to ask her to talk to Helion herself. She’d probably get far more information than he ever could. “Your guess is as good as mine, how that happened.”

What Helion was, and to whom, utterly confused him. Helion seemed to be making the effort with him now, but he couldn’t forget those earlier comments about being reckless, nor the way Helion had relentlessly criticized the Consortium, accusing them of deliberately harming the solar courts and seeking to dominate. How could they ever see eye to eye on anything? Would his real father end up rejecting and despising him, even if he was less cruel and violent in his methods?

Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with exhaustion, like every limb had become dull and heavy. He’d used way too much magic, and the worries he’d shoved aside in the heat of the moment were all seeping back in, and being near Elain was twisting and squeezing him in ways that were both blissful and torturous, and it was just so much, all at once —

“Lucien!” Elain’s voice yanked him out of his spiral, and he looked towards her in alarm. “You didn't say you were about to faint. Sit down, before you fall down.” Her hand wrapped around his wrist, and she tugged him towards the edge of the path, evidently meaning to sit him down somewhere.

Everything else faded out, like his worries and preoccupations belonged to some faraway person. There was only Elain, her sweet warmth and scent, her fingers clasped around him. He could do nothing but go where she led him, his body moving all on its own, sinking down to sit on the felled tree that Tamlin had crashed into.

He caught his breath, bracing his hands on the rough bark in a vain attempt to quell his longings, as Elain stepped in between his legs, her slender fingers brushing back stands of his hair from his face, then tingling across his cheeks and forehead. “You feel like you're freezing,” she fretted.

A delicious shudder rolled through Lucien, definitely not from being cold. “Just depleted. I used all my magic.”

Elain’s hand slid back from his skin and slipped into her dress pocket, rummaging around for a moment, then emerged with a small mass of green leaves.

Lucien’s eye clicked, trying to follow her movements in the darkening forest. How long did she plan to keep them out here, alone? Forever, he decided, wouldn’t be long enough, but the practical part of him that worried about the claw marks on her arms, and the people that would fret about their absence, made him ask, “Elain? What are you doing? I should be taking you back to the palace.”

She braced a hand on his shoulder, a command to stay still that his body was stupidly eager to obey, even if his mind still protested. “In a minute. You need to recover.”

He couldn’t help but smile up at her. He would take as many minutes as she would give him — secret, stolen minutes he could stash in his memories, relive long after she was gone from his life again. “If you say so.”

“I do say so,” she replied, arching a brow at him, in a soft teasing version of the Take-No-Shit Archeron look that he was coming to know well. He watched as she crushed the leaves up in her hand, a burst of invigorating citrus wafting through the air, and then nearly jumped out of his skin when she pressed sticky fingertips to the center of his forehead.

“This is vervain, like what we used for the sick younglings,” Elain was explaining. “In humans it cools down the body, but I’ve read it's the opposite for faeries. If I’m right, it will warm you up nicely.”

She began making a massaging motion that his body unhelpfully decided would be better applied lower down. Stop, before your scent shifts, he scolded it, not that it was likely to listen. Especially not as the leaf sap seemed to ignite his magic on contact, spreading heat through his limbs, swirling and twining as it reached his middle.

Wow, it’s really working, he almost exclaimed. With every brush of her citrus-scented fingers, he felt refreshed, euphoric, with renewed vigor pumping through his muscles. The lingering soreness from the fighting, the tickle in his throat from inhaling ash and shouting himself hoarse, even the aching hand wound that Eos had bandaged — everything felt renewed, like he’d just woken up from a restful sleep.

Elain was biting her lip again in concentration, her own honeyed scent mingling tantalizingly with the vervain, and he stared at her hungrily, every part of him aching to touch her, smell her, taste her, as though the past ten years hadn’t happened, as though the mating bond hadn’t been —

Holy hell.

The truth, which had been hovering just at the edge of his awareness, now exploded through him like a lightning strike. He’d been feeling their bond — wasn’t that how he’d found her? Hadn’t the aching in his ribs felt familiar?

Lucien resisted the urge to clutch at himself, to stare down at his middle, examine the magic. He didn’t have to look, not when it was so gods-damned obvious. He’d dragged himself around, empty, bereft, for so many years that he'd started to get used to the bond’s absence, but now it all had come roaring back, threatening to overwhelm him, drag him under.

Oh gods, now what happens? He stared up at her with mounting horror, every gentle touch on his skin suddenly a torment. She was still blithely applying the sap to his skin, perched between his legs, oblivious to the roiling conflict inside him. He felt like a monstrous ass, letting her do it, as though there was nothing but friendship between them. She’d run screaming if she knew how sorely he was being tempted, just by her mere proximity to him.

You have to tell her. It was madness, talking to her of trust and honesty, and hiding the most important truth that could exist between them. She’d be furious once she did find out, humiliated that she’d stood so close and let herself touch him, and what would her husband think of it all? Would he consider it cheating on their marriage? Would she feel guilt, despite being innocent?

Lucien could have groaned in frustration. Just when he’d finally gotten a chance to know Elain, just when she was finally comfortable around him, now the bond had to return? How could that even have happened? Had he somehow activated it with his magic? Was that a thing Day Court magic could do? Surely he would have heard of that before?

Say something, asshole, he berated himself, but he was too seized up with terror. Blurting the truth out to her had ended so badly, he’d be a fool to do that again. Could he manage to keep this to himself, just for a little while? Just long enough to figure out a real plan?

“Elain,” he managed to say, in a more or less steady voice, “you really don’t have to.”

Her fingers stilled, then lifted from his skin, trembling slightly in the air. Fuck, was she nervous now? Embarrassed? “If this is too much, I can stop,” she said softly.

He needed her to stop, for his own sanity, and any shred of dignity he might have had left, but what he wanted was an entirely different matter. He clenched his fingers around the bark of the tree he sat on, letting the bits of broken wood and pith dig into his fingertips, anything to take the edge off, and gritted out, “I don’t want you to stop, that’s the problem.”

She peered at him with concern, her forehead scrunching. “I don’t understand.“

And why would she? It was incomprehensible to him, how could he expect her to grasp it?

He forced his gaze away from her, suddenly unable to stand her earnest confusion. “It’s not your fault, Elain, I just — maybe I do need a healer.” He banded his hands around his ribcage, as though he could clamp his end of the bond closed, or at least stave off the intensity a little. “I’m not feeling very well.”

Elain cried out, “Oh, dear, we must get you home then. Come on, I’ll help you up, and we’ll find someone who can winnow you back.” Her hand tugged on his arm, don’t react, don’t make her uncomfortable, and then she asked, “Can you walk? I can’t carry you.”

That shattered his panicked state, for the image was just too ridiculous. “Wouldn't that be a sight?” He laughed heartily, despite it all, and managed to gaze in her direction to see that she, too, was giggling.

“Like in all the old tales Papa told,” Elain chortled. “Just a little different.”

Lucien had heard enough of those old tales, which had many variations in each human culture, to guess what she meant. “Yes, but I’m meant to be the dragon,” he pointed out, “not the princess.”

Elain said teasingly, “Not the knight in shining armor?”

“Definitely not that,” he joked, gesturing down at his utter dishevelment. The irony hadn’t escaped him that, for all he normally took pride in his appearance, he’d been a filthy mess for the entire time they’d spent together.

“I don’t know why not, you’re noble and kind. And armor shouldn’t be shining, anyway. That just means its wearer has never used it,” Elain declared.

The praise should have warmed his heart, should have made him happy, but a sick guilt stole through Lucien to hear it. Would she be talking that way, if she knew about the renewed magic? Would she say that, if her husband were present to hear her? Azriel was the knight to Elain’s damsel in distress, not Lucien whatsoever.

He stared down at his hands, as though he were holding his own aching heart within them. “I suppose you would know, with a family full of warriors.”

That was Elain’s cue to praise her husband and family, or make a graceful exit from the conversation, but she only shifted a little on her feet, then said, “I really don’t know that much about war. Nor do I want to.”

Then why did you marry a gods-damned warrior, he almost blurted, but he couldn’t spoil his time with Elain with bitter recriminations. “No one wants to,” he said, but then couldn’t resist adding, “almost no one, anyway.”

He stared down at his left hand, which had no pain or even scarring no matter how he bent and flexed it, as though the injury had never happened. If only his heart could heal that thoroughly. He knew he was being unfair to Elain, that he was getting too close to painful, awkward subjects, but if they couldn’t even acknowledge she was married in conversation, how could they ever discuss the bond openly?

After a tense few moments, Elain said, “You are a fine warrior, when you have to be, but I think you’re also good at preventing wars from starting, and that is far more important.”

Did she mean that? Hope flared in his chest, despite every rational thought cautioning him not to make too much of it. He looked up into her beautiful face, searching for the falsehood or truth in her statement, and found her gazing forthrightly at him, sincerity radiating from her. “Is it?” he whispered?

“Of course it is,” she declared. “The world would be a miserable place if people were always fighting each other. There’d be nothing but grief and fury, and no one would ever harvest food, for the fields would all be burned or trampled, and the people would be weak from starvation.” She looked sad, almost haunted for a moment, and he guessed she was recalling her own family’s struggles with hunger. “We’d all be poor, in body and spirit, except for whoever makes and sells weapons.”

“You sound so much like your father did,” he said wistfully. “Even as he was raising his army, he worried about what it would do to his people. That it wouldn’t be disbanded in peacetime, but simply seek out new targets to aim itself against.”

“You knew him well, didn’t you.” Was she crying? His arms ached to hold her, soothe all her sorrows.

“Yes,” he said sadly. He felt Leith Archeron’s absence keenly here, amongst the people the general should have led to freedom and prosperity. “I did have that privilege.”

Elain swiped at her face with her forearm. “I’m glad. For both of you.”

“He deserved so much better than what he got,” Lucien said miserably. “You all did.” And his hands reached out, before he quite knew what he was going to do with them, and grasped hers within them. He squeezed gently, wanting to offer her comfort, then carefully and deliberately released her, folding his hands in his lap so she wouldn’t see how they were shaking.

“Well, it started out rough, but I don't know,” Elain said, surprising him yet again. “Other than Papa not being here with us, I think it worked out pretty well.” She lifted her chin, indicating the quiet forest around them. “I’ve always wanted to travel, you know. Meet new people, see new places. Here I am, doing just that.”

“You’ve done much more than just meet people,” he pointed out. She was selling herself short, downplaying her contributions, and he wouldn’t have it. “You’ve saved these people’s lives. And possibly Tarquin’s and Cresseida’s, as well.”

“I don’t think they're saved just yet. I think the rebels are after something locked up in the Summer temple. I Saw snippets of it in a vision, and the rebels I talked to all but confirmed it,” Elain said. Not acknowledging the compliment, he noticed. Did she not believe that what she’d done was important? Was she used to being shunted aside, her opinions disregarded? Or was she just uncomfortable with his praise, in particular?

Elain withdrew a folded packet of paper from her pocket. He stared at it for a long moment before he recognized it as the spelled parchment he’d given her. “If you want to send a message to the palace, or if you just want it back,“ she offered, holding it out to him.

Lucien demurred, carefully pressing it back towards her, and used his free hand to coax her fingers to close around it again. “Keep it. I want you to be able to contact me,” he said hoarsely, then quickly corrected himself. “Contact us, if you ever need to. For any reason.”

Gods, you’re so awkward. Why would she ever want to write to him, in particular?

Elain acquiesced, putting the parchment back in her pocket. “Thank you. That’s a good idea.”

He had to chuckle at that. “I do have them occasionally.”

Elain’s smile lit up her face. “Only occasionally?”

Gods, how he loved it when she teased him. “A bit more often lately, perhaps.”

But then a too-familiar voice spoke up behind them, souring all of his enjoyment. “Not this time, little brother. This just might be the stupidest idea you’ve ever had.”

Chapter Text

Cauldron damn it. 

Lucien wanted to rage at the unfairness of it all. He knew this looked all kinds of wrong, with Elain standing between his legs, his hand holding hers. He probably deserved several lectures on his stupidity and recklessness. But the thought of arguing with his brother in front of his mate, of all people, made him want to cringe away in embarrassment. Couldn’t the diatribe wait until they didn’t have an audience?

He wanted to tell Eris to back off, to let him have just this one blessed moment. To pretend he could keep this connection with Elain, that they could mean something to each other.

But before he could conjure a suitable answer to say aloud, Elain twisted around, keeping her hands firm on his shoulders, pinning him in place. His stomach swooped at the intimate gesture, even as he scolded himself don’t be creepy, she’s just keeping her balance. He ignored his lovely view of the curve of Elain’s graceful neck, her jaw, her loose curls draped over her in a way that simultaneously shielded her chest and accentuated it invitingly, and glared at Eris instead.

Elain, too, was glaring. “Say the password.” 

Lucien’s laugh escaped him before he could wrangle any kind of dignified response. Was there anything sexier than sweet Elain Archeron, giving his haughty older brother hell? He’d assumed she would jerk away from him as soon as there were witnesses, and didn’t know what to make of this boldness.

Eris arched an imperious eyebrow at her. “The password is unhand my brother.”

All of Lucien’s enjoyment abruptly fizzled out. “Eris,” he snapped, his ears burning with embarrassment. Also, he didn’t want Elain to unhand him. “Don’t talk to her that way.”

Eris’s lip curled in sneering disdain. “Oh, Cauldron forbid anyone upset dear, innocent Elain. Who knows what tragedy could happen, if she were to hear words she doesn’t like.” His words addressed Lucien, but his eyes were firmly on Elain, his anger and contempt for her coating every obnoxious word he uttered. “Perhaps she’ll scurry away, back to the safety of her own court, where everyone only dares utter sunshine and rainbows in her sweet presence.”

“Back off, Eris,“ Lucien snarled, his frustration mounting. Elain didn’t deserve that level of scorn, not now. Not after all she’d done in the village to help and defend the humans, and the way she’d cared for Lucien —

He opened his mouth to say so, to tell Eris exactly where he could put his opinions, but then Elain raised a hand to stop him, and turned more fully towards Eris. Lucien mourned the loss of her hands on his shoulders, resisting the urge to grab for some part of her to maintain the contact. He didn't actually have that privilege, of being able to touch her just because he wanted to. It had been over a decade since he'd dared let himself imagine doing any such thing, and now those desires were more dangerous than ever.

“I can understand your concerns, High Lord,” Elain said brightly, as though the insults bothered her not at all. “I am a Seer, and you have matters to keep hidden. Naturally someone in your position would be anxious. But I can assure you, I have not let slip any hint of your secrets, in my own court or any other.”

Lucien sputtered, struggling to stifle his delighted reaction. Oh, she was good, much better at this than either of her sisters. Not only had she expertly targeted Eris’s deepest anxiety, she’d delivered the strike with the perfect tone — dismissive of the attempt at insulting her, charmingly sweet and solicitous on the surface, but with just a hint of sharpness, letting her opponent know she was not to be trifled with.

Of course your mate would be a skilled courtier, just another way she’s your perfect match, his mind pointed out unhelpfully.

“You flatter yourself. But I can assure you, you’re no danger to anyone, me least of all,” Eris said coldly, his outward demeanor barely shifting. But Lucien knew his brother’s tells, and the unflappable High Lord of Autumn was definitely rattled. Innocent, sweet Elain was threatening to him, and they all knew it.

“Why, Your Grace, I must say I’m honored. Your trust in my good intentions is gratifying,” Elain proclaimed. Gods, Lucien was going to fall in love with her, just for how effortlessly she could sass Eris with a straight face, bond be damned.

Eris’s attention snagged on him, the studied nonchalance taking on an annoyed edge. Fine, he probably shouldn’t have been laughing, but the entire situation was so fucking ridiculous that it was either laugh, or explode himself again.

Eris strategically changed the subject, demanding, “Where is Helion? He was meant to be looking after you, not abandoning you, alone, to the depths of the forest.”

His power simmered, the air growing hot and thick, and Lucien probably should have placated him, said something conciliatory to cool him off. But he didn’t like the way Eris was talking about Helion, who’d been far more attentive and, could he admit, fatherly, than the male was getting credit for, and he was still cross at the attempts to insult Elain. “I haven’t been alone,” he protested. “Elain’s been looking after me.”

I know I’m an idiot, he silently added, hoping Eris could see the unspoken plea in his expression. Take me to task later, but just let me have this, just for a few more minutes.

Eris narrowed his eyes, the only indication of how vehemently he disapproved, then grumbled, “So Helion dropped you off here and, what? Just fucked off again? Typical.”

Lucien allowed himself a small breath of relief before answering. “If I had to guess, I'd say he went back to the palace. He mentioned something about filling Mother in on what happened.” He watched Eris closely, wondering how much his brother knew about what was going on with their mother, but Eris’s face gave away nothing. “And Tarquin and Tamlin were going to winnow some of the refugees back, as well as any captured rebels they found alive, so perhaps he will help in that effort.”

Eris allowed himself a disgusted eye-roll — for which part, Lucien could well imagine. You hated Helion for making Mother miserable, now you’re going to hate him for making her happy? At the very least, Helion and Áine were talking, and Helion was trying to act like a father. That would please Áine, even if they never again became lovers. 

May the Mother bestow success on both of our efforts. Had Helion sensed his renewed bond with Elain? Was he hoping for the same with Lucien’s mother? What if Áine took him up on it, and left Autumn? Lucien couldn’t blame Eris for being conflicted.

But Eris would never divulge any weakness in front of Elain, so he deflected, sneering,“Rebels. Is that really what we’re calling them? This rabble hardly deserves the title. That would imply a degree of political organization, and a thought-out strategy that these lesser fae surely lack. And raiding one measly human village hardly qualifies as a rebellion, anyway.”

Elain said sharply, “This attack was little more than a distraction. The real battle will be at the temple, and it might be more hard-fought than you’re assuming.” Lucien imagined that her intelligent eyes were flashing with danger, that her face was flushing behind all those glorious curls blocking his view. Why did Eris get treated to such a view of her?

But then his eyes drifted downwards, to her lovely curvy body standing so, so close to him, and that view was so enticing that—

Nope. Do not keep staring at her body.

His eyes snapped back up to the back of her head, to her silken hair, hanging tantalizingly in front of him, tempting him to run his fingers through it. That was almost as much of a torment, so he stared past her to the darkening sky, the shadows of trees looming around them. Anything to keep his instincts under control.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve Seen that, too,” Eris was snapping back, apparently unable to resist a good argument. “How convenient that all your pronouncements can be made with such authority, when no one has access to those visions but yourself.”

Was Eris calling her a liar? Accusing her of making up visions? That was sour grapes, for what High Lord wouldn’t pay handsomely to have a Seer at his beck and call? “Elain’s visions sent me to Vassa, and saved this village’s sick younglings,” Lucien pointed out. “Surely you’re too smart to dismiss her, Eris.” 

Eris glared at him, but then Elain turned around enough to smile towards Lucien, coaxing a smile to his lips as well. She was indeed a bit flushed, her eyes sparkling, like she was enjoying this, despite everything. Dared he hoped she liked being around him?

But then Elain averted her gaze downwards, and turned back to Eris, and his hope sputtered out again.

“As I was saying, I’ve Seen this,” she went on. “Only snippets, but enough to know that the fight is not over. Their leader is after some source of extra magic lodged in the temple. Magic that could topple a High Lord and replace him.” She paused then, perhaps waiting to see if Eris would react. “And what so-called lesser fae lack is magic, not intelligence. I wouldn’t discount them so quickly, either.”

Lucien’s heart warmed to hear her defending lesser fae, even now, even after she’d had unpleasant encounters with the rebels. She has a logical mind, if she can see the situation that clearly, and a kind heart if she’s willing to defend them. 

“I see no evidence of intelligence here,” Eris said, waving a dismissive hand at the forest. “Just a cowardly attack on innocent mortals.”

“Yes, this attack was immoral, and ill advised, but they are desperate, grasping at any promise of advancement for their people,” Elain shot back. “If they had better prospects, more education, more political clout, perhaps they wouldn’t have been goaded into it. It all comes back to their being treated as lesser. That’s why they’re rebelling in the first place, because they’re tired of waiting for basic rights and respect.”

Lucien could have swept her off her feet and kissed her, just for that speech alone. “Well said,” he murmured.

“You’re just as bad as each other,” Eris said scathingly, clearly perceiving Lucien’s admiration, and not at all happy about it. “You sympathize too much with them, to your own detriment.”

Was that meant to remind me of losing Jesminda? That was a low blow, even for Eris. His brother had to know how much guilt he still carried.

Elain said stridently, “Maybe if High Fae sympathized with them a little more, they wouldn’t resort to rebellion in the first place.”

“Who’s discounting others now? You have no idea how I run my court,” Eris retorted. Was he that rattled, that he was losing control? “You have no idea how the Consortium does things, what initiatives we’ve been working on. Just because the lesser fae in your court live in mountainous hovels, eking out a miserable violent existence, bred for wars in which they die by the thousands, doesn’t mean it’s like that everywhere.”

Lucien could have groaned in frustration. He’d tried and failed to understand how Elain could be so passionate about equal rights while living in the most unequal court in Prythian. Would she defend her husband, defend Rhys’s policies? It was bad enough when Helion had done it, but he wasn’t sure if he could bear hearing that bullshit from Elain.

Which is why you could never have been with her, even if Azriel had never been a factor. You’d never have survived a life serving Rhys and Feyre, not with your soul intact.

But Elain surprised him, as she’d been doing almost constantly since the conference started. “I didn’t say the Night Court did it better,” she said calmly. “There are many things that we could improve on.”

There, Lucien was tempted to blurt to Eris, she gave you a concession. Now can we please leave the bullshit posturing for at least a few minutes?

Eris wasn’t finished, however. “You will find that among your precious family, you are alone in that perception. Your High Lord and his minions think themselves high above others, superior in their morals and lofty aspirations, no matter how many sordid actions taken to the contrary, or how many people are killed, or tortured, in the process.”

Tension locked up Lucien’s muscles. Torturing was what Elain’s husband did, the last thing he wanted to think about. Of course Eris was trying to bring him back to reality, warn him away from getting too familiar, from calling down the jealous wrath of the Shadowsinger on his head.

Would Azriel fight him, if Elain didn’t wish it? He hoped he never had to find out the answer. He’d thought the Shadowsinger a good male at first, more thoughtful and respectful of females than his brothers. But then he’d started to catch hints of clandestine overtures towards Elain, and sense Azriel’s animosity towards him, and he’d had to steer clear for sanity’s sake.

Elain seemed discomfited by the allusion to her husband, but didn’t get a chance to protest or defend him, for at that moment there was a drumbeat of wings pumping air, and the crackling of Vassa’s firebird power, and Lucien had just enough time to cobble together a shield around Elain before Vassa herself came swooping down towards him.

“There you are, Lucien,” Vassa cried out, her toes barely brushing grass before she flung herself forwards, forcefully landing against him and twining her arms around his neck. “Gods above and below, we were worried.”

Lucien yelped out Vassa’s name and fell backwards, sliding off the log in undignified fashion, landing in a heap on the wet ground with the firebird on top of him. Her wings snapped outwards, shimmering in the cool evening air, evaporating the mist into rivulets of steam.

Oh Cauldron, not now, he groaned inwardly, then immediately felt disloyal for the reaction. He loved Vassa, and owed her so much, and would miss her when she left him behind, but the timing of her arrival was truly unfortunate.

Or maybe it was what had to happen. He was falling for Elain, too fast, too hard, and the renewed bond was only exacerbating his reactions. Maybe he needed his friends’ interference to rein him in, snap him back to reality.

I don’t want reality, I want Elain.

“You fucking bastard,” Vassa hissed, her hands splaying out on his chest, her legs straddling him. “You were just gone.”

“I know, I’m so sorry,“ Lucien babbled, shoving up to his elbows, bracing one arm around the furious female’s waist to steady her, avoiding her wings that were still steaming angrily. “I just couldn’t leave them —“

Vassa’s fingers sank into his borrowed shirt, and twisted the fabric, drawing their faces closer. “You could’ve left and come back. You can winnow, you asshole. And don’t give me that bullshit about wards and magic. You could’ve taken five minutes to return to the palace, let us know what was happening.”

Lucien stared up at her, flummoxed as to how to fix this. He’d fucked up, he knew that, yet he couldn’t begin to regret it. Five minutes at the palace would have turned into far longer, and he would have had to answer a million unwelcome questions, and mediate arguments about what ought to be done, and fend off well-meaning busybodies insisting he needed backup. And even though he had needed backup, in the end, he was grateful he hadn’t called for it earlier. He would never have gotten to know Elain, much less spend any time alone with her.

He couldn’t see where Elain had gone, with Vassa and her unfurled wings blocking his view, but the bond told him she was still close by. Gods, how he’d missed having that reassurance, that he could use the bond’s magic to gauge her well-being. He wouldn’t dare intrude by trying to feel more than that, though. He had had enough of feeling her discomfort and disdain for him to last many lifetimes.

That was before, now it’s different.

But was it? How would she act around him now that they were back amongst familiar faces? Would she go back to avoiding him entirely? Or would they be formal and polite, as proper acquaintances that happened to be working together? He didn’t know which would  feel like more of a torment.

Vassa’s turquoise eyes burned into his. “You didn't even write to us yourself, you let her do it. Does she speak for you now, in all matters?”

“Vassa,” he whispered, keeping his voice low in some vain optimistic hope that every person in the forest wouldn’t overhear them. “I wish there’d been another way. But there really, truly wasn’t.” His hands curled around her wrists, gently dislodging her fingers from his ruined shirt. “I really am sorry I made you all worry.”

Vassa was glorious when she was raging, but now he worried about her temper. What if she unleashed another diatribe on Elain? He knew they’d had rough words already, and the mission couldn’t afford any more setbacks.

And you don’t want to have to pick sides, because you’re treacherous and cowardly, he scolded himself. What would his friends think, when they found out the bond was again active? That he was falling in love with the female they all hated on his behalf? He wanted to dig a hole, right here in the mud and muck of the forest, and dive headlong into it.

Vassa huffed softly, but relented, scooting back so that he could clamber back onto the log, then plopped herself down next to him. She cupped his cheek in her palm, gently stroking his flushed face with her fingertips. He tried not to wonder whether Elain might see this, whether she would draw the wrong conclusions from it. “You did uncover the conspiracy, and aid my people who lived in this forest, so I can’t be too angry, I suppose.”

Lucien nodded, swallowing hard. “I saw you in the battle. You were magnificent. After that show of strength, your people are sure to follow you anywhere.”

Vassa rustled her wings in acknowledgement. “We were able to catch two of the ringleaders, and many combatants, but we suspect there are more who were not in the forest. We will have to stay alert.”

Lucien grimaced. “And Tarquin’s challenger?”

“Long gone. Probably winnowed out, as soon as he saw it was hopeless.” 

“Elain said something about a final battle at the temple? I don't think we’ve seen the last of him. And we still don't know the full extent of the conspiracy,” Lucien fretted. “We have to quash the rebellion, without coming down so harshly that we become villains.”

“Tarquin will deal with his traitorous people. I don’t care what fate he gives them.” Vassa shifted on his lap, touching her forehead to his. “I’m here for the humans, and for you. Especially you.”

“And I’m grateful,” he said hoarsely. She had been there for him, along with Jurian, when he was barely functional enough to be a person. But he dreaded the lecture she would give him about this — knowing she was probably right to warn him made it no better. 

“This is madness, Lucien. You should not have been the one sent to deal with this problem. You should never have been forced into this situation, where you had to deal with her, after all you suffered.”

“I wasn’t sent, I volunteered,” he protested. Vassa pulled back and shook her head incredulously, like she couldn’t believe him. “No, really, it was my idea to go find her.”

“After you didn’t even want to be in the same crowded ballroom?” Vassa eyed him skeptically. “What possessed you to do that?”

Lucien sighed. He hardly understood the decision, even now. “I think it was fate. Maybe the Mother,” he shrugged. “Or the Cauldron, trying to nudge us together.”

“Lucien.” Vassa’s tone was reproachful.

“I know it sounds ludicrous, but consider. I found you, and Jurian and Leith, in the wilds of the Continent, despite having almost no information, nothing to go on except one very brief, vague vision. It’s like I was meant to find you,” he argued. It sounded improbable to the point of madness, even to him, but it was the only explanation he had. “There were forces at work that brought us together. Well, I think that’s what was happening here.”

“How together are we talking,” Vassa asked matter-of-factly, but he could see the effort she was making to stay collected. How her fingers curled subtly on her thighs, and her wings flared a bit brighter, ready to launch into another fight.

“I don’t know,” Lucien stammered. “We got sort of friendly. And before you ask, not that kind of friendly.” He guiltily glanced past Vassa towards where Elain stood talking with Jurian, with Eris hovering by the treeline near them, penning furious missives on his spelled parchment, the orangey letters sizzling and then dissolving faster than Lucien’s eyes could track them or read any hint of what he was writing. Elain looked annoyed, her arms folded petulantly across her chest, but he had seen her in action enough to know that she could hold her own, so he turned back with relief to his own fraught conversation.

Vassa’s lips were pressed tightly together, as though she were holding back a torrent of criticisms of Elain from spewing forth from them. But she was holding back, which Lucien took as encouragement. “It wasn’t like it used to be at the Night Court,” he offered. “I won’t say it wasn't awkward, especially at first. But the more time that went by and the more things happened, we had to move past all that history, and work together.”

“How very convenient for her,” Vassa remarked dryly. “It’s always like that, with her family. Everyone ignores the hurt they caused, in the interest of working together, and they never get held to account.”

Lucien shook his head. “It wasn’t like that.”

She raised an eyebrow. “She apologized, then?”

“Well, not in so many words,” he hedged. Elain’s actions had been like an apology, hadn't they? “But we did talk about the past, at least somewhat. And she mentioned you argued with her, and — how did she put it? — ‘took me to task for my thoughtless behavior.'”

Vassa scoffed, “Someone had to. We all know you wouldn’t.”

Lucien raised his hands in surrender. She really knew him too well. “You’re right. I didn’t explicitly lay out my grievances. Though I did tell her I didn’t know if I could trust her.”

“I’m impressed you even got that far,” Vassa said grudgingly. “But working together is one thing, being friends is another. Inviting her into your life that way — are you certain you want to risk it?”

“Yes,” Lucien blurted, his face going scarlet. His eyes darted towards where Elain still stood with Jurian, her lovely face tinged with sadness and anger. He longed to rush to her, wrap her up in his embrace, soothe away all her hurts and troubles. “Yes,” he repeated, more softly, forcing his gaze back to Vassa.

“Why?”

“Why? Because she’s a person worth knowing,” he replied, struggling to gather up all the thoughts he’d been having about Elain, all his observations, the hints of the kind of soul she had, his intuitions. “She’s different to the rest of her family. Kinder, and wiser. Patient and caring.”

Loving. Gods, it hurt too much to say it, when he knew she could never truly love him, not like he’d dreamed of. But love was who Elain was, at her core.

Vassa wrinkled her nose. “And you know this how, exactly?”

“I saw her in action. How she was with the younglings, the elders. Even me, when I was injured and exhausted.” He shifted self-consciously. “And when I had things to say about her court, about her family, she actually listened.”

“Anyone can put on a good act for one day,” Vassa said uncertainly, but he could see that she was considering this new information. “The question is, was she being sincere, or hoping to win you over for her own agenda?”

“Her agenda is to help the humans. Your people,” he said pointedly. “I know what you all think she is doing. But whatever Rhys had in mind when he sent her here, I truly think she wasn’t told anything. She cares for lesser fae, and for humans.”

And for me, maybe, he added to himself, but it felt too uncertain, too fragile a notion to risk saying.

Elain gave a breathy sob, like she was holding back tears, and he lurched upright. Gods, what had happened? What were she and Jurian talking about, anyway?

But before he could take a step forward, Vassa’s hand on his arm yanked him back. “So she’s a useful idiot,” she spat, “a puppet dancing on his strings, like he’d have you become, if you let yourself get taken in again.”

Lucien began to tremble with anger. “Gods damn it, Vassa, give me some credit. I’m not going to submit myself to the Night Court’s whims, just because I think that Elain is worth knowing. I won’t betray the Consortium like that. We’ve worked too hard to build what we have.”

“I know,” Vassa said, her grip softening to more of a caressing hold. “It’s just, after what she put you through, the idea of her anywhere near you is maddening.”

Lucien didn’t know what to say, so he stared miserably into the distance, trying in vain to ignore the fact that Elain had tears glimmering on her cheeks, but she still talking quietly with Jurian, not arguing. Perhaps he’d given her bad news? He desperately wanted to know what the problem was, but he felt frozen to the spot, like any move he made now would upset a delicate balance.

Eris stalked over to them, his spelled parchment rolled up in one hand, his pale face taut with displeasure. “Tarquin wants us all back at the palace. The refugees are frightened, restless, and he’s having a hell of a time calming them down.”

Lucien cringed. He could well imagine. “Have Tamlin and Briar gotten back?”

“Briar’s presence is the only thing keeping them from rioting,” Eris said grimly. “Well, that and a few of the more sensible leaders. They’re all asking for you, though.”

Lucien automatically looked at Vassa, who had drawn a comforting wing around him, but then Eris’s meaning dawned on him. “They want me?”

“You and your little Archeron friend,” Eris said, spitting out the Archeron like it tasted bitter on his tongue. “Apparently they trust you, think of you two as some kind of saviors.”

“Great,” Lucien muttered. He didn’t feel like a savior, Cauldron damn it.

“It could be worse,” Eris pointed out. “They could have blamed you for their village’s destruction. At least this way, we know they’ll vote in our favor.”

“Seriously? That’s what you’re thinking about?” Lucien snapped. After everything those poor people had gone through, all the years of hardship and suffering, and the harassment from faeries, the illness, the violence, a lot had to happen before they could think about voting. “Fucking hell, Eris.”

Eris tsked, “Until you are a High Lord, with a court of your own to look after, do not presume to lecture me on priorities, brother.”

Lucien’s gut twisted. Every leader had their own compelling interests to protect, their own places and people to put first, but what about people like him, who were exiles?

Would he ever feel like he belonged anywhere?

Lucien opened his mouth to answer Eris, but suddenly felt the bond roiling unpleasantly, and his gaze shot towards Elain. She was still standing with Jurian, earnestly talking, in no apparent danger, but her eyes were red from crying, and there was something else — something angry, seething under the surface. Something had deeply upset her, he could feel it.

He cursed himself for not going to her sooner. Still making that mistake, after all these years. He shoved up to stand, unsteady legs propelling him forward.

He maneuvered around Jurian, who smoothly stepped back, and approached Elain, who was still swiping tears from her eyes, her shoulders curved in on herself, like the burden of all the fear and despair of the past days was heavy upon them. His fingers itched to reach out and touch those shoulders, but would that be welcomed?

He took a bracing breath, and forced himself to speak softly. “Is everything all right, Elain?”

Her eyes rose to his, and he could see the pain glimmering in them, the confusion. This had all been so much, and she had been so strong. They had comforted each other during the crisis. Could he not provide comfort to her now?

Elain’s hand jerked towards him, her fingers snagging on his torn shirtsleeve, its ragged edges tainted with blood. She was staring down at it, her fingertips trailed over the fabric, maddeningly close to his skin.

“Elain? You seem troubled,” he managed, steeling himself against the near-touches, trying desperately to keep his composure. He tried to smile, to put her at ease, though he was probably fooling no one with that gesture. “Is something the matter?”

She kept her head lowered, her voice sweet and sorrowful. “They found Lin and Fallon. Hurt, but alive. They’ve been brought to the palace.”

“Well, thank the Cauldron for some good news, at least.” What that what had upset her? Her caring concern for the human elders made his wretched heart sing, but he didn’t like how she was avoiding his gaze. He longed to reach out to her, brace a hand on her jaw and tilt her face back up to his.

Do not do that, it’s far too intimate. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet instead. But that only brushed the shirt fabric more against his skin, doing nothing to cool his desires.

As though Elain could sense his treacherous feelings, her cheeks and neck flushed a pretty pink. “We should probably go back to the palace as well.”

That was the absolute last thing he wanted to do, have to manage himself around more of an audience, but they couldn’t hide in the forest forever. “Yes,” he agreed, "everyone has been very worried.” He gently slid his fingers around hers, coaxing them to unclench from where they were gripping his sleeve, unable to resist holding on a bit longer, for as long as she would allow it. “And I think it will make our human friends more comfortable if they see some familiar faces.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Elain said. “The villagers have been through so much, and they’ll be more afraid of faeries than ever. We should go see them, make sure they’re settling in.”

Lucien did his best to stay steady, to not let his hand shake or sweat profusely. He wanted to pour out all of his feelings, to tell her how much the last days had meant to him. And she was talking about continuing to work with him, to see the humans together, and not flinching away from his touch. Was he reading too much into it?

Don’t get greedy, you’re pushing it too far, he warned himself. Would she be letting you hold her hand like this, if she knew you desired her? If she knew about the mating bond?

It was unfair and deceitful, to keep such a secret. But could he risk it, when they were still in the midst of a crisis? Would she withdraw from the conference in order to avoid him? Would it sabotage their helping the humans? Would this be the last time she ever let him touch her?

You always do the reckless thing, and it always gets you into trouble. Just this once, be the fox everyone thinks you are, he berated himself.

Then Elain looked up, and his smile almost faltered when he saw her worried, pensive expression. Like this was all too much for her, and he’d finally pushed his luck to the limit.

She opened her mouth, and he braced himself for the rejection.

“Lucien,” she said, her voice sweet and tremulous. “I haven't been fair to you.“

His breath caught. That had not been what he’d expected. “It’s all right,” he tried to reassure her.

She shook her head, her lovely deep eyes brimming with tears. “No. It really isn’t. What I did was very wrong, springing — that — on you with no warning.”

That. She meant breaking the mating bond, didn’t she?

Hope, bright and fierce, burst into his chest. She regretted it — at least, regretted she’d hurt him. That was something. A start, maybe.

But she’s married, she has her own life and family. She didn’t choose you. She would surely reject the bond a second time, just with more care and gentleness.

He looked down at her, at her sad, guilty expression, then shifted his weight more evenly between both feet, feeling like the muddy ground underneath him would give way if he leaned too hard in any direction. “You were violently thrust into a new body, a new and frightening life during wartime, with no warning and against your will. What I may have gone through was unfortunate, but it was nothing compared to that.”

He could almost feel Vassa’s indignant anger radiating through his back, imagined that Jurian was working to calm her. He didn’t remember the worst of his ordeal, had blocked out much of those early days, but they recalled it keenly. Forgiving Elain probably seemed naive to them, even dangerous.

She’d been thoughtless, yes, and cruel, to cut him off so abruptly. She’d chosen to stay ignorant of what a bond meant, despite having ample resources to find out. And she’d never given him a chance, had deemed him unworthy of even her presence. All of that still stung, all these years later.

But as he gazed into her sorrowful eyes, he knew in his heart that he did forgive her, especially as she whispered, “You didn’t cause my suffering, but I think I caused yours. And I am truly sorry.”

She meant it. Mother spare him, she truly meant it. Warmth filled his body, and strange tingling lightness, like everything inside him was floating on air. She cared enough to express this to him, because it was how she felt, with no threat or promise influencing her. 

Tell her, his mind urged. Tell her now, before you go back to the palace.

Why mess with a good thing, the more sensible part of him argued.

Because she trusts you, and she won’t if you lie to her.

She was looking at him now, apprehensive and sad, and he wanted to kiss away her anxious frown, then kiss her again for good measure.

“Elain,” he began, his fingers tightening around hers, as though he could hold them both back from the edge of the precipice they were about to plunge into.

But then the air swirled subtly around them, his Day Court power stirring beneath his skin, and he froze in dismay as his father materialized in the clearing, with Morrigan beside him.

Morrigan. He would never forget how she’d shoved him away from Elain, then yanked his mate into the darkness, and he hadn't stopped her. That was the moment he’d lost Elain, the moment she’d been dragged to the Night Court. If he’d been able to bring her to Spring, everything would have been different. Feyre would have never dared topple the court, with her precious sister in residence, and Elain would have felt so at home among flowers. And he would have tried harder to work on Tamlin, to figure out how to get Hybern gone, and so many lives would have been saved —

It was useless to think of that, now after a dozen years, and even more useless to confess anything to Elain with Morrigan watching. She had probably discerned the truth already, which was supposedly one of her powers. Surely that was why she was here now.

He forced his fingers to open, to release Elain’s hand, and swiftly took a step back before his arms could fling themselves around her, physically keep Morrigan from whisking her away.

He tried to ignore Elain’s bewildered expression as he murmured, “Think no more of it.”

Elain frowned, stepping towards him. “But Lucien —“

No, no, please, he silently begged her, shaking his head, averting his eyes so that he wouldn’t lose his resolve. If he looked at her now, he would confess it all, consequences be damned, and she deserved so much more than that. She deserved to be happy, and he was only getting in the way.

Elain extended a hand towards him. “Lucien, what’s the matter?“

Then Eris must have taken pity on him, for he finally interrupted. “Well, look who finally decided to show up.”

Mor stalked towards them, suited up in Illyrian leathers with her hair bound back as if for battle. She snapped, “Shut up, Eris,” before turning to Elain and declaring, “There you are. Finally.”

Before he could register Elain’s answer, Lucien felt himself gently but firmly pulled back, a strong hand clamped on his shoulder. “Your mother wants to see you, as soon as you’ve gotten done with the humans,” his father said in his ear.

Lucien nodded absently, only half-processing the request, and not at all considering the implications, for Elain and Morrigan were now arguing. Elain had her arms folded across her chest, and Mor was waving hers impatiently in the air. “Yes, yes, I know all of that. We can discuss it later,” Mor was saying. “Now come on, we have to go.”

“Go? You mean, back to the palace?” Elain asked, then turned around and looked right in his direction. Lucien tried to force his face to go blank, to avoid wearing any reaction whatsoever.

“I’ll explain on the way,” Mor flung her hand out towards Elain again, clearly expecting her to take it. When Elain didn’t obey, she clarified, “It’s Azriel.”

Elain gasped. “Is he —“ She gulped, then managed, “He isn’t — injured?”

Mor glared over Elain’s head at Eris, spitting, “You’ll see when you get there. It’s private.”

Eris didn’t bother to give her a reaction, but seemed to be watching Elain closely. Like he was assessing her as a threat. Or an asset.

Mor held out her hand more insistently. “He needs you, Elain.”

After another moment, Elain nodded. “All right.”

Of course she would go to her husband. There had never really been a question in Lucien’s mind, only a vain stupid hope that he’d known better than to nourish. If he was devastated at the thought of losing her, if his heart was breaking all over again, he only had himself to blame.

Elain reached out her hand towards Mor, then seemed to hesitate, turning to look towards him over her shoulder. He met her gaze, hoping he looked calm and neutral, even though inside he was a mess. Would she even return to the conference? Or was this the last he’d ever see of her?

Elain seemed to sense his unease, for she tried to give him a little smile, though she looked too worried to properly manage it. But his heart was comforted, just a little, to see that she’d made the attempt.

“The first few moments are always the hardest,” Helion murmured, and Lucien jolted to recall that his father was beside him, watching the scene unfold with a grave, thoughtful expression. Maybe later, he’d ask Helion how he could stand it, watching his mother return to Beron time after time.

At least Azriel truly loves her. That had to make this bearable, Lucien supposed, to know that Elain was returning to the male she had chosen, the one she truly loved and desired. If he could never be that partner for her, at least she had one. At least she would be happy.

As for him — well, now he had an apology, and memories, and a bond that he’d hoard like a secret treasure, and that would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

The palace was a teeming, raucous jumble.

Every room and hallway seemed full to bursting with humans — not just from the village he’d personally visited, but folk from up and down the mountainside, even from settlements out in the marshes, all evacuated and brought to the palace. There were tearful reunions of long-separated neighbors, and more than a few suspicious glares at the High Fae, as the folk took in their new situation. Most had left behind every possession, every accumulated scrap of wealth from the last dozen years, and they were wounded and exhausted and frightened, and it took little time before tempers flared and patience ran out. A minor dispute could quickly devolve into nastiness, even violence, under such conditions.

Lucien moved through the corridors in a trance of quiet purpose, his body executing the motions and gestures, his lips mouthing the appropriate words, almost in spite of his conscious awareness. He found himself directing people to guest suites and meeting spaces, patting their shoulders, answering their queries if he could, or directing them to others if he couldn’t. He endured angry diatribes and then profuse apologies, and shook or squeezed the people’s hands, and shrugged off the hopes and praises they tried to heap on him.

He didn’t deserve that, nor did he have time for it. There was far too much to do and take care of. Infirm or injured folk who needed healers, malnourished folk hungry for sustenance, lists to be made of supplies and requests, and lost families desperate to find each other, and questions to answer, so many questions.

He only wished he had all the answers.

Chased out of one home, then another, never feeling quite safe anywhere — he knew that pain intimately, more than these folk even realized. He wished he could tell them that it would get better, that they’d one day find peace and stability. But could he actually promise it? Would he be offering them a dream, a vision that could never quite manifest?

Such thoughts drifted in and out of his mind as he took steps through the palace, sometimes with Jurian, sometimes with Tarquin, as they strove to calm and organize the people. Vassa had set herself up in the High Lord’s receiving chamber, handing out reassurances and marching orders, and Lucien caught glimpses of her as he passed in and out. She was always surrounded by wide-eyed admirers and supplicants, Scythians rediscovering their queen, or foreigners newly converted to her cause. He didn’t doubt she would gain many followers, that she would leave Summer in a much stronger position, that she would lead these people to far better places than they had ever known.

It was what had to happen, what she had been born for. He grieved it, but he did not resent it. He had only been holding her back these last months, bogging her down with his own stupid problems when she ought to have already left for her homeland. But there was no ignoring the subjects who needed her when they were here, actively begging her to lead them. His was a wholesome, comforting sort of grief that he would keep tucked close to his heart, so that he could continue to admire Vassa from a distance.

If his heart and his magic were pulling him towards another female, he tried valiantly to ignore it.

He was rounding a corner, intent on heading towards the Dawn Court’s rooms that had been hastily converted into an infirmary and surgical center, when he saw Fallon limping towards him. The old bastard was in far better shape than he had any right to be, and Lucien could do little but stare at him in wonder as Fallon filled him in on the folk from the village. Lin was still with the healers, getting a bone break treated, while the Mandray widow had met up with a long-lost sister who could help with the children, and the younglings were already begging to go swimming, even before they’d been assigned bedchambers.

“And you, old friend, you’re the picture of health,” Lucien exclaimed, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Eos knows what she is doing.”

“If you’re looking to gloat with that I told you so, lad, then so be it. I feel like a young fellow,” Fallon grinned. “Now, Eos, was that the one with the wings? I’ve never seen such fancy feathers.”

Lucien almost burst out laughing. “No, that’s Vesper. And he’d blush like mad if he heard you say so.”

“Never thought I’d hear myself say so, but some of you faeries are quite lovely. Ethereal, if you know what I mean, like our old stories of angels and elves. If you all looked like that, I wouldn’t mind it.”

Lucien joked, “We can’t all be Peregryns, Fallon.”

“Is that what you call ‘em? We had a falcon called that, back in our lands. A bird of prey, with a beak that could slice, and vicious talons.” The man took a few more steps forward, the only sign of infirmity a slight stooping posture, and a mild shaking of the hand holding his cane. Considering he’d been practically on his deathbed, it was a marvel. “A reminder, I’d suppose, that you’re all capable of good and horror."

That was as accurate a description of the fae folk as Lucien had ever heard. “We’ll set it all to rights, Fal. I promise.”

The old man waved his cane down the bustling corridor, where humans were congregating, with the occasional faerie among them. Some were walking together, some talking in hushed voices, and in between them darted the villages’ children. “This is a right mess, Goldeye, no mistaking. But if anyone can make some sense of this chaos, it would be you and the Archeron lass.” His eyes darted around the too-crowded space, then fixed on Lucien. “Is she about?”

Lucien tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. “She was called home, for a spell.”

Elain had said that she would return to the palace, help him settle the humans in. But that had been before Mor had shown up to winnow her back to the Night Court, for some secret reason. Had Azriel, or gods forbid Rhys, gotten wind of what Elain was up to? Had they recalled her because they were worried for her safety, or displeased with her methods? Would they let her return to the conference, assuming she even wanted to come back here?

If they’re forcing her to stay behind, if they put her in that House of Wind, I’ll get her out, I don’t care what it takes. Lucien didn’t think anyone at the Night Court would dare do that to Elain, for they treated her far more respectfully than Nesta. But then again she’d never tried to defy them, or branch out on her own in any way, at least not that he’d ever witnessed. And from the way Mor had spoken to her and about her, he’d surmised it hadn’t changed much in a decade. Would they punish her new spirit and independence?

She’s smart enough to avoid that. She’ll say whatever she needs to say, figure out how to convince or appease them. She’s clever, he tried to reassure himself.

To Fallon, he added, “She’s very eager to see you all again. I know she’ll do everything she can to help out.”

“Good. The folk are asking after her,” Fallon said. “She made quite an impression.” 

Lucien tried to smile, but found he couldn’t quite manage it. “She does tend to do that.”

They were interrupted by a high-pitched squeal, and a commotion of younglings bursting into the corridor, and Lucien barely had time to throw out a hand to brace against the wall, and to block Fallon from the stampede, before Lyra was slamming against him, followed by four or five other younglings. He yelped, but managed to keep his balance for once, and hoisted her up while chuckling heartily.

“So you’re a guest at the High Lord and Lady’s palace,” he said, noting with satisfaction that her spirit was undimmed from having undergone a frightening experience. She was dressed in clean clothes, made of far finer fabric than her usual rough-woven garments, and was scrubbed clean and had her hair combed, though it was loose and twisted up again from running. Even her peeling sunburn had been treated, leaving her skin smooth and pale. “What do you think of it?”

“Big,” Lyra declared, her eyes wide and sparkling. “But too crowded.”

Lucien laughed. “That it is. It’s not usually like this.” He felt a pair of skinny arms twine around his middle, and looked down to see that it was Castor. “Have you been assigned a room yet?”

“Two rooms, with chairs and a table, and one bed for each of us,” Castor said, clearly pleased about it. “And we can even see the ocean!”

“Well, that’s perfect,” Lucien said. It sounded like they’d gotten one of the upper floors overlooking the boardwalk, maybe even the quiet hallway where Elain’s guest room had been. Don’t think about her now, he scolded himself, as though he had any choice in the matter.

Lyra bit her lip, her eyes going glassy. “Papa’s not anywhere. We’ve been looking.”

“Not perfect, then,” he said gently, then lowered her back to her feet. “Not yet, anyway. But I promise you I would try to fix that. And I might know something about where he is.” He gestured out the nearest window, to the half-submerged island rising from the glittering ocean, to the cluster of smaller structures and the pearlescent temple perched in their midst, reflecting the early morning sunlight.

Gods, morning already, they’re all going to want breakfast. He knew Cressida was organizing the staff and provisions, that there would be a plan to feed all these hungry mouths, but he didn't envy the High Lady her the task.

Instead, he focused back on the children. “Do you see that building out there, on the water?” Lyra and Castor both ran to the window, peering over the ledge, and Lucien stepped up behind them, debating how much was safe to share. “I think that place holds some of our answers.” And much more, if Elain’s cryptic comments were to be believed, and he’d never had a reason to doubt her visions.

Just then, the children’s mother came rushing up the corridor, her eldest son close behind her. “How many times have I told you both, don’t go running off?” she shrilled, hastily brushing loose strands of hair from her face. “This place is too big, there’s too many strange folk about, and we don’t — oh, it’s you,” she broke off, seeing Lucien standing with the children. “Well, that’s all right then.”

Lucien managed a polite nod, though part of him wanted to protest that he wasn't at all sure her confidence was warranted. Could he really keep the children safe, if someone here wanted to do them harm?

“Peace, Leda, all’s well with your children, or as well as it can be,” Fallon said, resting both hands on his cane. “What news have you got? Have you come from the healers?”

Leda nodded, drawing a slender arm around Castor. “Lin’s up,” she said, with obvious relief. “The silver-armed one is fashioning her a walking device, to use until her new hip fully fuses with the leg.”

Fallon’s face crumpled with relief. “Is that right. Well, then.” He blinked rapidly, his eyes focused on someplace far away, then sheepishly looked back to Lucien. “They said they could give her a whole new bone, and she’d go to sleep and not feel a thing. I had my doubts, mind you. Who ever heard of a mechanical hip bone? And to let them use magic on her like that? But what was the other option?”

Lucien grimaced, knowing there was none, but tried to reassure him. “Nuan’s work is unparalleled. She did this, after all.” And he let his mechanical eye click and buzz for them all.

“Well, Lin is one lucky lady,” Fallon said, his voice momentarily choking up with emotion. “You fae, you can do the most marvelous things. She would have perished, out there in the forest. Or never walked again.” He swallowed hard, then glanced down the corridor to where Jurian was standing with a group of humans, issuing instructions in the steady confident tone he always used with his soldiers. “I owe your general a mountain of thanks, for finding us.”

“He won’t want it,” Lucien said, but Jurian had already turned at the sound of his name. When he registered the captain’s presence, he stiffened, but then seemed to recover, and gave Fallon the traditional sailor’s salute, and with great care and dignity, the old fellow returned it.

“What happens now?” Leda asked. “With all of us, I mean.”

Lucien cast about for a suitable answer. “What do you want to happen?”

They all gaped at him. “It’s not a matter of want, lad. Surely your faerie lord and lady have a plan for us,” Fallon sputtered.

“Their plan is to provide whatever assistance they can, within reason,” Lucien assured him. He was aware of others in the area turning to listen, or continuing their own conversations in low voices but with one ear turned his way. They would trust whatever he said now far more than any official platitudes. “If you want to return to your homelands, or resettle in Adriata, or seek out some other residence, the Consortium is at your disposal.”

His magic flickered, seething underneath his skin, and he tensed as he realized it was reacting to his father’s presence. Helion would surely disapprove of him talking up the Consortium to these people, but this wasn’t a competition between solar and seasonal courts for the humans’ loyalty.

At least, to him, it wasn’t. Eris and Helion both seemed to feel differently.

The humans around him seemed to grow quiet, and the reason for that soon became clear, as the High Lord of the Day Court stepped up beside him. “Your mother awaits you, at your leisure,” he said quietly.

Lucien jerked his head in a stiff nod. He didn’t ask what was going on between Helion and Áine, or how the hell he was supposed to address Helion in public. The hallway suddenly felt too cramped, too narrow to contain all of his conflicting feelings about his father.

Lyra was staring up at Helion with huge eyes. “Are you a dragon, too?” she blurted.

The High Lord regarded her with a bemused expression, not at all put out with her unmannered boldness. “In a manner of speaking, yes, I suppose. But not the fiery kind.”

Lucien recovered his wits then. “Lyra, everyone, this is High Lord Helion. My— my father.”

He felt, rather than saw, Helion’s surprised reaction. He supposed that only made sense, given the newness of it all, and how recently they’d quarreled. But how else was he meant to introduce him?

Captain Fallon limped forward, one hand firm on his cane, the other extended towards Helion. “You’re Goldeye’s father? Well met, sir. I was his captain during the war effort.”

Helion eyed his extended hand for a moment, before seeming to recall the etiquette and giving the captain’s hand a firm shake. “Goldeye, was it? I suppose that’s appropriate.” His eyes briefly flicked towards Lucien, then quickly away, as though the sight of the mechanical eye and the scars around it were too unpleasant to dwell on.

Lucien tried not to flinch at the reaction. He knew most people found his scars ugly, or morbidly fascinating at best. He’d been surprised Elain had been willing to touch them.

But then Helion said, more quietly, “That was as brave a moment as I’ve ever seen, when he stood up to her. Has he told you the story?”

Fallon nodded grimly, but Lyra exclaimed, “Is that when he was attacked by a monster?”

“Hush, Lyra, don’t interrupt,” her mother scolded. “This is a High Lord of Prythian, not one of your playmates.”

Helion leaned down towards the girl, bracing his hands on his thighs. Although he seemed to tower over her, radiating power that she should have shied away from, Lyra lifted her chin in the air, gazing up at him with no fear in her expression.

“Yes, little one, a very cruel and bloodthirsty monster,” Helion said, regarding her solemnly. “She conquered these lands for fifty long years, and perpetuated much suffering and ruin. My own father, a High Lord, fell to her powers, as did many, many others who tried to fight her. But do you know how she was finally defeated?”

Lyra shook her head.

“She met her match in a human girl,” Helion said, “a very brave and stubborn girl, who came to Prythian to live among us.”

The other younglings began to murmur amongst themselves, but Lyra blurted, “How?”

Helion stood up. “She stuck by what she believed in, and kept her wits about her. She stayed strong throughout her ordeals, of which there were many. And,” he added, glancing meaningfully at Lucien, “she chose her friends well.”

Lucien’s throat burned. This was praise, public praise at that, and he couldn’t quite grasp that it was genuine. What happened to thinking I was foolish and reckless?

“Now if you will all excuse us,” Helion said, “Goldeye here has to go see his mother.”

A few of the younglings chuckled, as though the thought of a grown male being summoned by his mother amused them, but Lyra surged forward, flinging her arms around Lucien’s leg. “But we have a deal. I caught him, and he swore on the big cooking pot that he would help me,” she pouted.

“On the Cauldron,” Lucien clarified, seeing Helion’s confusion.

“Ah, yes. Such oaths must of course be honored,” Helion said, peering down at the little slip of a human girl, choosing not to ask the obvious question of how she had come to believe she’d caught a faerie. “The Cauldron’s magic is not to be trifled with. But might I propose a short delay, so that we might all attend to our obligations?” When Lyra didn’t budge, but wound her arms tighter around Lucien’s leg, Helion leaned down and winked conspiratorially at her. “I hear they’re serving breakfast in the main ballroom. If you go now, you might still get pancakes before they're all eaten.”

“Pancakes!” whooped Castor, tugging excitedly at his sister. “You won’t make us late for that, would you, Lyra?”

“Just think, no more yucky stew,” Lucien murmured to his tiny captor, who had pressed her cheek into his pants leg — luckily a clean pair, hastily thrown on after he’d scrubbed himself raw in his guest suite, nearly sobbing with relief to have hot running water again. He looked presentable for the first time in days, though a fat lot of good that would do him, if a certain female wasn’t around to see him.

Lyra wavered, but the prospect of fresh-cooked breakfast that wasn’t a flavorless mush seemed to finally sway her. She looked up, her chin jutting into Lucien’s leg, and asked, “After you find Papa, will you take us to the ocean?”

Lucien patted the top of her head. “I wouldn’t pass that up for anything.”

Lyra reluctantly disentangled herself, then ran off with her brothers, whooping about breakfast, but her mother lingered at Lucien’s side for a moment. “Do you really think you can save him?”

He swallowed hard, but nodded. “I’ll do all I can. For your young one, as well.”

The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Tyndar I had hopes for, but Pollux… I never thought I would see him again. It’s been so many years, do you think he’ll remember me? Or forgive me, for leaving him?”

“You did what you thought was right at the time,” Lucien said, keeping his voice down, mindful that they still had an audience. “You tried to protect him, as best you knew how. When he gets older, he’ll understand.”

A tear slipped down Leda’s cheek. “How do you know?”

“Because,” Lucien said, stealing a furtive glance at his father, “my mother had to do the same for me.”

“She sent you away?”

“Maybe she should have,” Lucien said, though the thought of growing up without his mother was heartbreaking. “It might have saved her much hardship. But there were secrets she kept, even from me, to protect me. She sacrificed, and she suffered, for my sake. Too much.”

Leda’s lower lip quivered. “I never thought — with all your powers, with being so strong, and fast, and immortal — I never imagined a faerie could suffer.”

Lucien didn’t know whether that would comfort or disturb the humans more, to realize that even powerful fae could be conquered. That the world was even more dangerous than they’d pictured. Or would they feel more equal to faeries, like they were at less of a disadvantage? For Leda’s sake, he hoped it was the latter.

“We’re more alike than different,” he suggested. “We suffer, we lose people we love, we survive and go forward.”

Helion stepped forward then, bracing a hand on his shoulder. “We will leave you to your breakfast,” he said, inclining his head to the humans, in a show of respect Lucien hadn’t expected. The cynical part of him wondered if it was a ploy, if he sought to win the humans over to the side of the solar courts, but the part of him that couldn’t help but grasp at any tiny scrap of hope rejoiced at the display.

“I’ll try to visit Linnet later,” Lucien called to Fallon, but Helion was steering him away, the hand on his shoulder firm as iron. “What's the hurry?” he asked, trying to keep the irritation out of his tone.

“Áine is worried. I can feel it,” Helion rumbled, brooking no argument as he steered them through one corridor, then another, then into a bubble elevator to take them to the upper section of the palace. Not towards the Autumn Court suite, Lucien noticed. “You have long kept her waiting.”

“I had to make sure they were all settled,” Lucien argued, indignant at being made to feel guilty. “Mother knows that.”

“Of course she does. She also knows you’ve been through an ordeal, that you rushed the healers along when they checked you, and that you haven’t properly slept or eaten in days,” Helion said sternly. They were at the doorway of a grand suite on the uppermost floor, and with a wave of Helion’s hand they were inside.

The part of Lucien that was still a diplomat marveled at Cresseida’s strategic thoughtfulness. She had chosen a suite for the Day Court’s ruler that was perfectly positioned for the east windows to receive the sunrise, which was bathing the room in rays of yellow and orange, and he didn’t doubt that the sunset would grace the west windows in due course. But he ignored the striking view, and the pulsing of the sun’s power gracing his skin, in favor of the familiar lovely female draped on the plush sofa, nursing a cup of floral tea.

“Oh, Sunshine,” Áine cried, hastily setting the cup down and springing up with a vigor he hadn’t seen her exhibit in many decades. She was across the room in a few quick movements, grasping his hands in both of hers and staring up at him with a nervous smile on her face. She looked very well, Lucien thought, like her magic had been reignited, like all of her vibrancy had been restored.

But he could see that she had not slept well, that her mind was burdened with worry, and he tried to reassure her. “I’m fine, Mother. I had a few rough days in the forest, but it’s all right now.”

“Is it?” She was examining him closely, checking him for injuries, and he felt a spike of guilt at having made her anxious with his absence. He’d done that for centuries, being in exile.

“It is,” he said firmly, though no one in the room believed it, him least of all.

“Let’s come in. Sit,” Helion said, the suggestion sounding more like a command. He stepped past Lucien and banded an arm around his mother, and Lucien hastily averted his eyes before witnessing any more of their interaction. He strode into the room, his ears burning, and poured himself a cup of tea with shaking fingers before topping off his mother’s cup, out of habit.

“So? Tell me, Sunshine, are you well?” his mother said, but Lucien still didn’t look at her directly until she’d settled onto the couch next to him. “I heard there was a difficult battle. I heard you fought valiantly.”

Lucien didn’t dare ask who might have told her such a lie, but shrugged it off with, “I just did what I had to do.”

“No. You went far beyond it,” Helion spoke up. He was perched across from them, his ankle resting on his thigh in a deceptively relaxed pose. Was he showing off his legs to Áine? Lucien wanted to blush with embarrassment, both at the blatant flirting and at the too-easy praise heaped on him. He’s being complimentary to me because Mother likes it. Who knows what he really thinks of it all.

Áine was leaning forward, brushing his hair back with her fingers. “Eris said something about the Archeron girl being there?”

Lucien shuddered. He couldn’t help it. He’d watched Elain leave, again, Cauldron damn it, and he’d just stood there and let it happen. Not that he could have done otherwise. He wouldn’t break up her happy marriage, even if she did somehow have feelings for him, any more than he’d try to break up Vassa and Jurian.

“Sweetheart?” Shit, he’d forgot his mother had asked a question. “You look troubled.”

“Troubled? Me?” he asked, his voice far too high, his denial too quick.

Áine’s hand came to rest on his back, making him almost jump out of his skin. “Will you talk to us, Lucien?”

Helion began to get up. “If my being here is too much, if you want privacy, I can —“

“No. Stay, darling,” Áine said, holding up her hand. “You know what this is like, better than anyone. You can talk to him, help him through it.”

Lucien’s mechanical eye began to click rapidly. “So you and he — “ he began, foolishly struggling to state the obvious, and failing to make the words come out right. “Then things are resolved between you?”

His parents exchanged a look, something silent passing between them. “Resolving,” Helion said finally.

Áine said anxiously, “Does that bother you?”

Lucien made a choking cough. “What? No, of course not.” He faced her fully, taking her hands. “All I want is to see you happy. I told you that before, and I meant it.”

“I am happy, Sunshine. Truly,” she declared. She glanced past him, to where Helion was watching them, then turned back to Lucien. “Though it feels wrong to be so, when you are suffering.”

“I’m not —“ he tried to argue, but the lie stuck in his throat and refused to dislodge, so he croaked instead, “Don’t worry about that.”

“You may as well tell the sun not to rise,” Helion murmured. “Your mother will always worry for you. It’s in her nature, to put her children before herself.”

And how would you know, Lucien almost snapped at him, but of course Helion would know, wouldn’t he? He had known Áine for centuries, long before Lucien was born. Had left his own mating bond unfulfilled, denied his own instincts and desires, so that his mate could stay with her children. And then he’d suffered the broken bond, not knowing if she was dead or alive, with no way to check on her, no way to rescue her from her abusive husband, no idea of the child he had fathered —

“How did you stand it?” he blurted to Helion. His eye began to click wildly, and he fought to stay composed. “How did you not go mad from despair? How did it not consume you?” His fingers curled into fists, but there was no enemy to fight against, except his own stupid feelings for Elain, which were all he had left of her.

Helion had moved to sit on the couch next to Áine, his arm braced around her back, her hand squeezing his knee in silent comfort. When he spoke, his voice was rough, stripped of all its usual confidence and bravado. “It did consume me. I won’t deny it.” Áine made a small distressed noise, and his arm moved, his hand making slow circles on her back. “I told myself I just had to survive, that it helped neither of us for me to perish. I got up each day, distracted myself as much as I could, and counted down the moments until I could see her again. And when I lost her, I mourned her in secret. And I sought out the enemies of the one responsible for her misery, and that was some comfort.”

It all sounded exhausting to Lucien, even more so when he considered his own situation. There was no Beron Vanserra to consider, but having to live like this indefinitely, with the incomplete bond and the need to keep it secret always hanging over him? “I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” he admitted.

“You survived the worst part. At least now, you know she desires the connection,” Helion pointed out.

“She — what?” Lucien sputtered. The thought of Elain desiring him, in any sense, threatened to overthrow him utterly. But no, that could not possibly be. She did not desire anything from him, other than his passing friendship. She certainly would not want the bond. What an utterly ludicrous suggestion —

“Shh, darling, calm yourself,” Áine said soothingly, and he realized that he had let go of her hands, and was gripping the couch cushions, and the fabric under his palms was starting to singe. He hastily removed his hands, pressing them together, and sent a puff of air towards the ruined cushion, dissipating the burnt smell with a wave of his fingers.

“It’s the way the mating bond works,” Helion explained. “The one who severs it is the one who must re-establish the connection. It cannot be otherwise, or no bond would ever be truly severed.”

“But —“ Lucien’s heart was pounding so forcefully that he was struggling to get air in. “But she wouldn’t have — she is married.”

“So was I,” his mother pointed out. She reached for him, coaxing him to sit closer, and after another moment’s hesitation, he found that he couldn’t refuse her.

“That is different. Azriel is not like Beron,” Lucien protested.

“And thank the Cauldron for that. I know the Shadowsinger well. Or as well as he allows himself to be known by outsiders,” Helion said. His deep eyes gazed at Lucien, with none of the impatience or frustration that Lucien had detected before. “He is not an easy person to deal with, but he is loyal and protective of those he loves.”

“That ought to be the bare minimum,” Lucien said, hating how jealous and bitter he sounded.

“Protective? Do you think he’ll come after Lucien?” Áine fretted.

“He would not dare,” Helion thundered, with enough vehemence that Lucien jumped in his seat. “Rhysand would not jeopardize my friendship, by allowing any member of his circle to do so. After what he has already done, the threats he has already uttered, and the duplicitousness with which he has acted towards those he calls friends, he is fortunate I have not revoked our alliance.”

Lucien could almost hear Eris in his mind, urging him to drive the point home, to drive a final wedge between Day and Night. But he was too raw, too despondent to focus on the politics. Instead, he buried his face in his hands. “I don’t want to break up her marriage. I don’t want her to be unhappy.”

“Perhaps you ought to trust her, that she knows best what would make her happy,” his mother said gently, squeezing his shoulder.

Helion was regarding him contemplatively, leaning forward with his forearms braced on his thighs. “That was spoken like a true mate. You would have her be happy, even if you are miserable.” He looked at Áine lovingly, longingly, before dragging his gaze back to Lucien. “But consider that she is your mate as well. And your happiness impacts her own.”

“It never did before,” Lucien grumbled, but then he recalled Elain’s last words to him in the forest. Perhaps she really was sorry for the past. Perhaps she really had started to like him. Perhaps now she did care about his happiness.

Don’t get your hopes up, he warned himself sternly. She left without even saying goodbye.

But as he looked at his parents together — together, despite all the centuries of heartache and deception — he couldn’t help but wonder.

Chapter Text

“Don’t you agree, Lucien?”

Lucien looked up in alarm. He’d been staring morosely into his drained cup of tea, tuning out the buzz of talk all around him, but now his gaze swept around the table, taking in the bemused or irritated expressions on his friends’ faces. There were Vivianne and Kallias, hands linked together, their quarrel seemingly patched up to both’s satisfaction. Tamlin had his arm braced around Briar’s chair, as though he feared she might vanish at any moment. The ornate throne next to Tarquin was empty, for Cresseida had business elsewhere in the palace, but Eris was flanked both by Áine on one side and Erawan, the least obnoxious of the Vanserra brothers, on the other.

And next to Áine was Helion. How had that happened?

He almost put his pen to parchment, to ask who’d decided to invite Helion, then quickly thought better of it. He’d given a piece of that parchment to Elain — what if their messages were intercepted by Rhys, or the Shadowsinger?

Idiot. He’d have to redo the magic on everyone’s papers, to limit who could see the group messages. It was just another way that he’d allowed his reckless feelings to interfere with his duties. Maybe Eris had been right, after all — maybe his desire for Elain really was endangering the Consortium.

“We were just asking about the rebel informants. About the reliability of their testimony,” Kallias said, taking pity on him at last. “The water wraith, Tiberius, the one you apprehended in the marshes. Can he be trusted?”

“Yes,” Lucien said, his mind finally clicking into gear. “Tiberius gave me help freely, expecting nothing in return. I could not have found the human village, or gotten in safely, without his advice.”

“I wouldn’t say he expected nothing,” Eris drawled, leaning back in his chair. “He probably hoped for leniency, either going free, or being spared a traitor’s death. He saw how soft you were, to let his brother off with no consequences, despite attacking innocent people in broad daylight, and figured you were easy to impress or manipulate.”

On Áine’s other side, Helion shifted in his seat, carefully controlling his annoyance. He was a newcomer to these meetings, not even a Consortium member, and perhaps felt like he ought to be more diplomatic, especially with his mate’s family. And no doubt Eris was pushing his luck, as a consequence.

Perhaps he fears Helion will turn spy, and feed all of this information to the Night Court. Not that Eris hadn’t done the same thing, when it suited his interests.

“Lucien’s act of mercy probably saved many people from throwing away their lives on the rebellion,” Tarquin said, flashing Lucien an apologetic smile. Despite his status as Prythian’s youngest High Lord, he was the wisest and most compassionate among them. “Many slanders were spread amongst the fair folk, that rebels’ families would be persecuted. If the people see that we are merciful, that we care about justice, they are less likely to want to overthrow us.”

Eris opened his mouth, ready to criticize that line of reasoning, when Helion interjected, “The bargain binding the informant’s tongue was crude, but effective. We must assume all rebels are sworn to it.”

Briar shook her head. “Not the ones Elain and I encountered. They seemed to be able to speak freely.” Tamlin gave a soft growl, and she patted his hand soothingly.

The more Lucien thought about Elain and Briar’s near-miss with the rebels, the more furious he got. They’d been accosted by gods-damned naga, only escaping serious harm because of Elain’s diplomatic skill and quick thinking.

I should have been there. He’d thought she was safer, hiding out in the forest, but he’d been a fool to let her out of his sight. Well, she was truly gone now, unlikely to return.

What was she about to tell me? He couldn’t help but wonder. He’d replayed her last words so many times, picking apart each syllable, trying to remember the exact tone she’d used, the direction her eyes had been gazing, the curve of her lips, the shrug of her shoulders, anything to decipher her intentions.

“—could send him back to his people, and see if he can bring us back more details. Get the survivors to divulge more secrets,” Kallias was saying.

“What of the other informant? The female?” Viviane asked.

“Fulvia,” Lucien supplied, his heart sinking when he thought of the lonely, earnest High Fae female who’d served him secrets along with his luncheon. “Her husband was with the group that attacked the village.”

“Either he didn’t tell her what they were planning, or she didn’t see fit to hold up her part of the arrangement,” Eris said, with obvious distaste.

“I’ve got to think it's the first option. She seemed to genuinely hate the rebellion, and worry for her husband’s safely.” Lucien didn’t know why he was bothering to defend a female he’d only met briefly. Was it the thought that Fulvia had what he’d once desperately wanted, and therefore she had to be a good person? Could a High Fae love a lesser faerie, yet be utterly indifferent to the plight of humans?

“She may have not liked the rebellion, but she would not betray her husband’s movements. If she knew he would be attacking a settlement, would she not endeavor to keep our eyes off him, so he would not be captured?” Vassa said, from her perch at the other end of the conference table from Tarquin. She was wearing the traditional Scythian costume, a crown perched regally on her head, with Jurian dutifully at her side. Lucien had only talked to her briefly after their return to the palace, but her angry and suspicious questions still rang in his ears. She was just worried for him, he told himself. Just trying to make sure he didn’t get his heart broken.

“The husband is in custody now. We could question him,” Viviane suggested. “We could send in Lucien, since he has made a connection with the family already.”

Lucien swallowed hard. “I’m no interrogator.”

“We don’t need to call it an interrogation,” Tarquin said. “We don’t want to go in there threatening violence, and make their leaders look benevolent by comparison.”

“These low-ranking prisoners are out for one thing only - to save their own skins,” Eris said. “They’ll lie under torture, say what they think we want to hear, and implicate others at their own level, but they’ll fear retribution from the leaders. And the leaders are who we’re really after.”

Always mix truth with lies, Eris had always counseled. Feed Father just enough he can verify, and he won’t question the rest.

Lucien’s stomach burned with anger. He’d been forced to practice that skill over and over. The fact that it all made sense now, that Beron had known all along he was a bastard, didn’t take away the sting of those memories. Nor had Beron spared any of his real sons from his torments, not even Eris.

His eyes found Helion at his mother’s side, and a longing rose up inside him that threatened to overflow and engulf his awareness. His father and mother had long been separated, but they had known and loved each other, each carrying memories that could sustain them.

What did Lucien have to hold onto? He had fond memories of his mother, but many more in which she was sad and frightened. And his real father was a stranger. A stranger who was as confused and angry as he was.

A stranger who was trying, by the Cauldron.

He could see it in Helion’s tense expression, how he sat just a bit too stiffly at the conference table. How he clenched his jaw when Eris provoked him, rather than unleashing an insult-laden diatribe. How he hadn’t defended Rhys once.

Was it all a ploy, a courtier’s stratagem, to improve Day’s position with the Consortium? Lucien would have settled for that, for it was better than making an enemy, but then he saw his mother softly smiling, her hands resting, unclenched, on the table. He hadn’t seen her anxious habit of digging her nails into her palms even once in Helion’s presence, and a deep, desperate gratitude rose up inside him to see Áine actually relaxed and happy.

“I must concur with the High Lord of Autumn,” Helion was saying, his voice clear and even, although the words must have tasted sour on his tongue. “You must make it plain that our power is greater, and that power can be used for them or against them. Make it seem like we can protect them, or deliver a fate far worse than the rebel upstarts could ever accomplish.”

Now Helion and Eris were agreeing? What sorcery was this? And when Helion said our power, whose did he mean exactly? “I suppose I can try.”

They all gave him nods of thanks, and then the conversation moved on to more bureaucratic matters. Cresseida soon came in and slid into her throne next to Tarquin, giving updates on the numbers of humans, how many had required treatment for injuries, the supplies needed to feed them all at the palace, and the healers’ requests for more ointments and bandages, and many other such details that Lucien’s mind glossed over. She asked Vassa and Jurian many questions about the human lands, which places might welcome refugees home, and many more about cultural differences, so that they might avoid giving offense to their guests.

Lucien let his awareness drift, feeling like his presence at the meeting was superfluous. He had nothing to say that he had not already said, and no energy to ask questions. He trusted the Consortium leaders to sort out the situation, far more than he trusted himself in this moment. They’d all been right to worry about him. He’d been compromised, lured in by Elain’s lovely charms. His judgment could not be trusted.

At least now, you know she desires the connection.

Was Helion right? He could lose himself in daydreams and nightmares, trying to determine what Elain desired. It was dangerous, to think in this manner, to do anything but try to ignore the bond entirely.

And yet.

As though the bond was somehow responsive to his errant thoughts, there was a shy, gentle tug at its center.

Lucien’s hands flew to the spot on his ribcage, his heart stuttering out a furious rhythm. Was that — no, he’d merely imagined it. That was the only reasonable explanation. She didn’t know the bond was there, so she couldn’t possibly be tugging on it.

“Sunshine?” his mother asked, leaning forward with a concerned frown.

No, no, no. The last thing he wanted was to draw the room’s attention.

Tamlin’s hand rested on his shoulder. “Are you well?”

No, he wasn’t well. He was the furthest thing from it. He was starting to panic, especially when a firmer, more insistent tug made him lurch forward, and he braced his hands on the table to steady himself. Gods, it was the sweetest sort of agony, like he was unraveling from the inside out. And Elain was the one who was doing it. How?

She must have figured it out. Would she be disappointed in him for not telling her? Was she angry? Would she cleave the connection again, this time permanently? Would she —

Suddenly he was whirled around in his chair, and Eris was in front of him, hands braced on his arms, the concerned faces of the others looming behind him. “Breathe, little brother,” he commanded, and Lucien obeyed, taking in one ragged breath and releasing it shakily, then gulping down more mouthfuls of air.

“I’m fine,” he gasped out at all. “Just — Elain —“

Vassa ducked under Eris’s arm, reaching out to clasp Lucien’s face in her hands. “What is it? What’s she done now?” she hissed.

Lucien clutched at his torso, as though he could sink his fingers inside and curl them up around the bond, hold it tight, shield it from anything or anyone who might threaten it. “She tugged on the bond,” he whispered, staring up into Vassa’s face, wincing as he anticipated her reaction. “At least I think so. I’m not certain.”

“I am,” Helion said from behind them all. “The magic looks stronger.”

“Wow, it’s creepy that you can see that,” Jurian said, then gave Helion one of his infuriating grins when the male turned to glare at him. “What? You don't think that’s intrusive? Makes me glad I don’t have a bond—”

“Jurian,” Vassa snapped, not bothering to turn around. “Leave it.”

Jurian’s smile sharpened. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Lucien knew what Jurian was doing, which was providing a very welcome distraction, but he couldn’t make his mind focus on it long enough to be properly grateful. “It’s okay. I’m okay,” he assured Vassa, and the room at large. “Something’s got to be happening, though. She wouldn’t — do that — for no reason.”

Viviane frowned. “Can you feel anything from her? Is she in distress?”

Briar made a small horrified noise, and Tamlin’s arm tightened around her.

“Gods, I hope not,” Lucien exclaimed. He itched to jump up, to bolt from the room, to winnow to wherever she was — but no. He’d done that once before, and only humiliation and pain had come from it.

Vassa huffed, “She’s surrounded by powerful people. She doesn’t need you to defend her.”

Tamlin said gravely, “What if they are the ones hurting her? What if they’ve trapped her and she can’t leave the Night Court?”

Helion’s patience finally cracked. “I am willing to believe much of Rhysand and his people, especially as pertains to their treatment of outsiders. But hurting the High Lady’s sister, or keeping her trapped, is an accusation too far. Feyre would not tolerate such ill-treatment of her sisters.”

“Try asking Nesta about that,” Eris groused, but then he conceded, “When it comes to Elain, it is unlikely.”

Lucien desperately hoped so, but how could he be certain? 

Then he remembered he’d given her the spelled parchment, and he scrambled to retrieve the papers from his pocket, unfurling them with shaking fingers. He scanned the page, nearly exclaiming aloud with relief when he saw that there were words written there. His mechanical eye was clicking too rapidly to read, and he was forced to close both eyes for a long moment. Get it together, keep your composure.

But she’d tugged on the bond. How was he meant to understand it?

Read it, you idiot, he urged himself. Gods, what a coward. Why was he hesitating? She wouldn’t have tugged on the bond just to get his attention, then written to tell him to go fuck off. Would she?

Lucien, she’d written, in an elegant script that he resisted the urge to trace his finger over. I Saw you in a vision just now. Are you all right?

His fingertips tingled around the parchment, his breath sucking in sharply.

“Well?” Vassa sputtered, and he jolted upright, clutching the paper to his torso. Shit, he’d forgotten about his audience. Part of him wanted to keep all this tucked away, for him alone, like he and Elain had been alone in the forest. She cared, at least enough to check on him, and he wanted to savor it.

But they were all waiting, more or less patiently, and he knew he owed them all some kind of answer.

“She had a vision. I was in it,” he said, and then, “I need a pen. Now.”

His friends began murmuring amongst themselves, but Eris swiped the nearest pen from the table and shoved it at him. “Tell her only what she needs to know. Nothing else.”

Lucien bristled, ripping the pen out of his brother’s hand. “Don’t you think I know that?” 

Eris cocked a fiery eyebrow at him. “I don’t know. Do you?”

“Darling.” Áine had come up behind Eris and was gently placing a hand on his shoulder. At least here, amongst familiar faces, she was not so shy about contradicting her High Lord — if Eris was even her High Lord at all. “Give him space. Let him answer.”

Eris let himself be coaxed away, but Vassa was not as easily dislodged. “If she hurts you again, I don’t care if she’s your Cauldron-fated mate, I’ll wring her neck.” He must have looked horrified, for then her voice softened. “I know she apologized for what she did back then. I know people can change, after a decade. But doesn’t this all seem a little too sudden?”

Lucien looked past her, to Helion and his mother. They had retreated to a far corner of the meeting chamber, away from Eris and the others, and their heads were bent together as they talked in low voices. Áine’s hands were on his chest, Helion’s curled protectively around her shoulders. Reassuring her, perhaps.

“Fine. It is sudden,” Lucien said. “But it’s not like I’m making any decisions. I’m just talking to her, Vassa.”

“And if she decides she doesn’t want to talk to you, after all? If she decides the friendship isn’t worth her oh-so-precious time and attention?”

“Then I’m no worse off than I was before.” That was probably a lie, but what else could he say? That he knew he was taking a risk, that he would probably be crushed with disappointment later? “I need to go answer this,” he mumbled, slipping out of the chair, away from all the solicitous faces, and even Vassa didn’t try to follow him.

His cheeks were hot as he reached the corridor, leaning on the windowsill to write his message back to Elain. His fingers trembled, then gripped the pen tightly.

Why am I freaking out? She just asked a simple question.

He closed his eyes again, marshaling his courage.

I am well, thank you, no need to worry, he started to write, but caught his pen up after only the first two words. That was utterly bland, impersonal, unintriguing — and probably sounded like he’d had his pen confiscated for his own protection.

I am sat on the page for long moments, his pen hovering over it. What the hell was he? What was safe to reveal? What would charm and entice her?

I am sorry it took me so long to answer, he finally managed. Consortium meetings can be long and ponderous. If that was what you saw in your vision, I apologize for the tedium.

He stared at the letters as they sat on the page, taunting him for his indecision, then crinkled the paper by accident when his message faded out. That meant Elain had read it, and was responding. He knew it was stupid to stare at the parchment, counting the seconds as they ticked by, but his anxiety increased with every moment he waited.

The bond was right there — he could tap into its magic, get a sense of her feelings, but he had too many scruples on that score. It felt wrong to do it without her permission, like he’d be snooping into her secret thoughts.

I’m sure there is much to discuss, came Elain’s answer, splaying out across the page in a rush. So you are truly well? And still at the palace?

He frowned thoughtfully at the message, then answered, Is that not what you expected?

There was a short pause, and the parchment flickered, as though she had started to write something and crossed it out too quickly to register.

I really am fine, he added, hoping it would reassure her.

Haltingly, her answer appeared. I’m sorry I bothered you. It’s just, after what I Saw, I was worried.

Was she apologizing to him for caring? Warmth glowed beneath his skin, spreading through his chest. Then he wrote rapidly, his heartbeat pulsing through his fingertips as he struggled to keep the pen steady. While I hate that you were worried, I’m not bothered whatsoever. Quite the opposite. 

Another pause, then, You don't mind that I interrupted your meeting?

He bit his lip to keep from grinning foolishly. You have done me a rather large favor. I was struggling mightily to look attentive.

Although he’d made no effort to investigate her feelings through the bond, he could somehow sense that she was relieved. What a scandal. Aren’t you meant to be a skilled courtier? The Fox of Prythian?

Lucien couldn’t suppress the grin any longer. Is that my reputation? How perfectly shocking.

He imagined that she, too, was smiling, that she was wagging a scolding finger at him. You protest far too much.

Well, I suppose I can’t always be climbing trees and diving into muddy lakes, and dancing with lovely partners under moonlight, so I must find my amusements somewhere. 

His fingers quivered, and he left off there, staring nervously at the compliment he’d slipped in until the ink shimmered and vanished. It had been indirect enough that it could have meant anyone, but if she wanted to read into it further, he wouldn’t object.

What a coward, he scolded himself. And he deserved it. But he was so far out of his depth already, so past the point he’d ever imagined he’d get with Elain, that every little hint and flirtation felt like he was tiptoeing further out on a precipice, ready to plunge to his ruin at any moment.

After an uncomfortably long wait, Elain finally answered. Is the village truly gone?

It is. But they are safe and recovering, and they will have their choice of courts to go to. Or back to the human lands, if they’d rather. He wondered if part of Elain felt jealous of the humans, that they got to keep what had been ripped from her, that they had choices she’d never been given.

They must have been frightened, she wrote. And then, I’m sorry I had to go.

His heart raced. Was she simply sorry for leaving the humans, or did he factor into it, somehow? Dare he ask what the problem had been? Why she’d been whisked away from the forest without even a chance to see a healer and bathe, and get a change of clothing?

I hope your emergency has been resolved, he wrote, then hissed at his dumb awkward phrasing that sounded like he was conducting a business transaction. But I hope your husband didn’t die, since it would make you sad hardly sounded more appropriate.

Thank you. Yes, the emergency is over.

Lucien longed to say so much more, to tell her that she was missed and ought to return, that he desperately wanted to see her again. But could he risk it?

In your vision, what was I doing?  And then, just in case she really couldn’t tell him, so as not to jeopardize some future outcome, he added, Nothing too embarrassing, I hope.

He felt it then — a pang of regret, or maybe sorrow, emanating from inside his ribcage. From Elain.

I’m sorry, she wrote. I don’t know why I’m shown certain things. I didn’t mean to pry, I promise.

Oh, gods. Was it something that had already happened? Or were there more humiliations to come? A prickling shame crept up the back of his neck as he contemplated all of the things she could have Seen, each option worse than the last.

You once said I made your visions stronger. And I do seem to keep appearing in them. So maybe it’s my fault, after all.

Oh, Lucien, no. Please don’t say that. Her handwriting had become a large looping scrawl,  rather than the small neat lines she’d written before. None of this is your fault. You didn’t ask for any of this. 

One of the letters near the end of the line blurred, as though a droplet of water had fallen onto it and feathered the ink. Was she crying?

Elain, he wrote with shaking fingers, but he had no magical words that could solve this. What he wanted to tell her was all twisted up inside him, tied up with all of his regrets and hangups. What he really wanted to do was to curl his body around hers, to hold her close and comfort her. He’d imagined doing just that, in the early days after the mating bond snapped, replaying the memory of her spilled on the floor, wet and shivering, his stupid jacket draped over her sheer nightdress.

He’d only gotten close to her for mere moments, but he’d had dreams of what could have happened — how he might have scooped her up in his arms, shielding her from the prying eyes and leering comments. How he might come out to find her in Tamlin’s gardens, sat by her side in the afternoon sunshine, read her stories, lay back on a blanket under the willow tree…

He couldn’t bring back that lost idyllic dream, nor any of the others he’d foolishly thought of while serving the Night Court — walks by the Sidra under moonlight, dinners on the boardwalks, shows in the music halls, trips to the Continent.

He’d thought himself long past such regrets, resigned to the fact that they could never have happened. He’d thought she was happy, that she would get all those enjoyments with her chosen partner. But now he longed to do those things with her, for her, more than ever.

And when she needed comfort, like she did now, he wanted to be the one who could give it. He wanted to pull her up against him, feel her warmth and her softness, and kiss her tears away, and murmur nonsensical things until she giggled. He wanted to be the one she turned to to dry her tears, not the one she shed them over.

Will you come back to Summer, he asked. Will I ever get see you again, he might have added.

Yes. I’m just wrapping up some odds and ends here, helping Feyre get her baby’s room ready. Then she’s going to winnow me back here.

Lucien stared at the paper, astonished. Feyre’s going to come here? What about Rhys?

Not Rhys. Not right now. He thinks it would disrupt things too much, and we both agree with him. But Feyre wants to talk to Marta Beddor, and meet the other human villagers.

Holy shit. He didn’t know whether to be hopeful or very, very worried. She does know Tamlin’s here, doesn’t she?

She told me she couldn’t let that stop her. That she’s tired of maintaining this feud that he and Rhys have had going for centuries.

Well, that was easy for Feyre to fucking say, but Lucien wasn’t about to get into it right now. He glanced nervously down the corridor, wondering how quickly he could intercept Tamlin, then thought to write, If Briar could be in the room with them, I think she could be an effective peacemaker.

Oh, yes. But

Lucien stared at the parchment, willing the message to continue. At last, it did.

But what about you? Will you want to see her?

Lucien blew out a long breath, considering the question. Did he want to see Feyre? No, not in the slightest. But if he expected to have any sort of anything with her sister, he supposed he couldn’t very well keep his distance. Elain was still part of the Night Court’s royal family, and what was more, she loved Feyre and felt a sense of loyalty to her.

This is exactly what Eris warned you about. How insidiously you’ll get drawn back into their orbit.

He swallowed, then answered, Want might not be the word I would reach for. But if the circumstances require it, I won’t be the one to refuse.

There. He hadn’t said no outright, but had not simply caved, either. His friends would probably be annoyed, but if she was the one making the overture, who was he to put up barriers? He’d tolerated far worse people, for far longer, than Feyre Archeron, whose mistakes could at least be attributed to youthful arrogance and a naive infatuation with power. He couldn’t say the same of her mate or her courtiers, but no one was asking him to tolerate them. 

Not yet, anyway.

That was the real danger -- that the Night Court would start insinuating itself everywhere, that the Consortium’s gains would all be reversed. And how long would it be before Rhys was crowning himself High King, after that?

Tarquin and Cresseida should know of her plans, he warned Elain. She can’t just show up at the palace, expecting a warm welcome. Especially now. There have been too many surprises already. And with her being pregnant, especially, she might want to wait until the rebel threat has been dealt with.

That is thoughtful of you. Perhaps you’re right. And if she waits until afterwards, perhaps we could bring Nyx as well. It’d be wonderful for him to meet other children his own age.

Lucien couldn’t begin to imagine what that might be like, though it entertained him to imagine little Lyra giving Rhys’s haughty little heir what-for. So he just wrote back, I hope the rebellion is dealt with swiftly.

Then he recalled that he did have actual work to do on that front, so he added reluctantly, Speaking of which, there’s an informant I’ve got to go speak to.

Take care, Lucien. Please.

The words glittered in his vision, illuminated faintly by the magical spell that conjured them, and he stared at them until they began to blur and fade away.

He picked up his pen one last time. You too, Elain.

Chapter Text

Why did they send me? I’m no interrogator.

Lucien stopped short in the dim hallway, the echo of his footsteps lingering a moment longer and then fading out into uneasy silence. The cells were all empty, save the one he was hesitating in front of, and he couldn’t decide if that was a relief, or only made things more ominous. He sucked in a lungful of thick, humid air, wishing like hell he was far from the palace, far from all this intrigue and mystery, and back in the forest with Elain again.

It’s just talking. You’re good at talking. You’ve questioned people before.

But this was different, and Lucien knew it. Quintus wasn't one of Tam’s wayward sentries caught drinking on patrol, or a witness to a theft or brawl, or a bored courtier gossiping over cards, or one of Fal’s skittish sailors who’d fled from his post. Quintus was a rebel, an enemy fighter, and there was too much riding on getting answers from him for Lucien to start getting squeamish.

Maybe Elain would have liked me better if I were tougher. If I tortured people for information.

It was a bitter, uncharitable thought, and Lucien tried to dismiss it. Surely Elain hadn’t chosen Azriel because he tortured, but in spite of it.

You thought he was a good male, when you had to work with him. And for Elain’s sake, and even Feyre’s, he prayed it was true.

That thought only made his ribs ache strangely. Gods, what was he going to do when he saw Elain again? She was coming back — she had said so. He’d see her again. Could he dare to hope that they’d have a real friendship? He’d have to suppress his instincts, but he’d done that before. Or the mating bond would ruin everything, yet again.

He straightened his spine, bracing his hand on the door, feeling Tarquin’s magic bubble up around it, then give way and allow him entry. He nudged it ajar, then slipped inside, feeling the magic prickle again behind him. He scanned the lightless, airless hollow carved out of the depths of Tarquin’s palace, then summoned a small orb of light. The prone figure sprawled out flat on the bottom of the two slabs cut out from the wall flung an arm over his face.

Lucien nodded down at the tray of food and drink left untouched near the doorway.  “That’s getting cold.”

The figure on the slab shifted, then huffed, “Could be poisoned.”

Lucien suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, and flicked a finger at the tray, and the cup of tepid tea started steaming again.

The male shifted to prop himself up on his elbows, eyeing Lucien warily. “You’re the fireling.”

Lucien leaned back, arms folded. So he was known to the rebels — that was worrying, though not surprising, given how many of them had seen him in the forest. As long as Elain stays off their radar. If they went after her —

He forced his voice to come out matter of fact, unbothered. “Yes. I am Lucien.” Getting no reaction, he added, “And your name’s Quintus?”

The male huffed again in answer, then lay back again, affecting an unbothered, indifferent posture.

“Fulvia’s probably worried sick about you,” Lucien said.

Quintus shot up so fast, he narrowly avoided bashing his head against the upper bed-slab carved into the wall above him. “Don’t you talk about her,” he snarled.

Well, at least that got a reaction. “I could send her a message,” Lucien offered. “Tell her where you are? That you’re safe?”

Quintus snorted, “Don’t patronize me. We both know I am not safe.”

Lucien eyed him appraisingly. “You could be safe,” he told Quintus. “If you cooperate. I could ensure it.”

Quintus’s thin lips twisted. “You expect me to believe that? I’m in here for treason. You’re going to get whatever you want, and then kill me.” His long webbed fingers fidgeted aimlessly, the mottled blue skin transforming further up his bare arms into a dark blue pattern with patches of green scales.

That gave Lucien a sudden thought. “Does your kind have to immerse in water?”

“No. I breathe air just fine.” Quintus’s frilled ears fluttered. He was surprised by the kindness, perhaps, but still wary.

Lucien sighed. Fulvia had helped him because she’d wanted protection for her husband, but he couldn’t protect Quintus from his own foolish decisions. “Well, I can tell your wife where you are. That you’re not dead in the forest.” He looked sharply at the male, wanting to shake sense into him. “She’s isolated where you’re living. High Fae aren’t well liked there, and she knows it. Your neighbors only tolerate her because she’s your wife. What do you think is going to happen if everyone thinks you’re dead?”

Quintus paled, the green scales standing out more brightly, but snapped, “What would you know about it.”

“I know,” Lucien said, his throat growing tight. “More than you’d expect. I know firsthand what happens when a High Fae falls in love with…” He stopped himself from uttering the words lesser faerie, instead using Tarquin’s preferred term. “One of the fair folk.”

Quintus glared sourly at him, but said nothing.

Lucien’s temper flared. “My family killed my Fulvia, before we could escape and I could marry her. You had the chance to live with yours.” His breaths came faster, his magic sparking in his veins, as the injustice of that long-ago tragedy again consumed him. Gods, how he could be snapped back so quickly, as though no time had passed at all, as though Jes’s screams were still ringing in his ears. His voice lowered to a rasping whisper, the sorrow and shame of Jesminda’s murder burning in the back of his throat. “You had everything I ever wanted, and you threw it away.”

Quintus looked surprised, but persisted, “You don’t know what it’s like. We have nothing.”

“You have each other,” Lucien snarled. His mechanical eye started to click unpleasantly, and he blinked his eyes furiously to rein it in. “That’s more than most people ever get.”

I never got to have that. Not with Jes, and not with Vassa, not truly. And definitely not with Elain.

The other male was quiet for long moments, and when he spoke again, he sounded almost contrite. “It wasn’t enough,” he admitted. “Not in the long term. I could love her, but I couldn’t feed her. Couldn’t give her the kind of life she deserved. Do you know how hard it is, seeing your love so unhappy?”

That, Lucien had never experienced. He’d never had a chance to stay with a lover long enough to disappoint her. What would he have done if Elain had accepted him, all those years ago, only to desperately miss her sisters and regret leaving them? Would she have blamed him, if she’d had to sacrifice too much, or life was simply not the bed of roses she’d pictured?

I would have done anything to make her happy. But what if nothing was ever enough?

It made him almost sympathize with Quintus, who was continuing to rant on his own situation. “—never enough coin to truly get ahead, not after losing my job at the palace. No one wants a lesser fae laborer anymore, not when they can get humans to do it cheaper. Fulvia works herself too hard each day, for too-long hours, just to cover our basic expenses, and we can’t even afford anything nice. Our roof is in constant need of repair.“

Lucien said, “I gave her enough gold to get that taken care of.”

“So that's where the purse came from. I thought that was suspicious,” Quintus grumbled.

“A thank you wouldn’t be out of place,” Lucien said, starting to grow irritated.

“You paid her to betray us. Why should I thank you for it?” Quintus shoved up from the bed-slab and began to pace, his bare webbed feet splaying out awkwardly on the stone floor. “If word gets out that Fulvia ratted us out, do you know what would happen?”

“So you decided to put her and yourself at risk, by committing treason?” Lucien asked icily.

Quintus’s frilled ears were quivering. “It won’t be treason when our rightful ruler takes over. People like me are going to be patriots. Heroes of the new order. He’s going to fix it all, get us out of the marshes, give us money and land of our own. Seats on the governing council. There won't be any more distinctions, no more High Fae and lesser, or fair folk, whatever you call it.”

Lucien frowned, noting that Quintus still hadn’t used the leader’s name, despite the freedom with which he was ranting. Did he not know it? Was he desperate enough to follow someone so secretive and dishonest that he wouldn’t even divulge his name?

“Fine goals,” Lucien said, “but armed rebellion is no way to achieve them. Besides, Tarquin already wants all these things. He’s been pushing for reforms for years.”

“Tarquin is weak,” Quintus said scathingly. “He willingly gave up authority to a High Lady. And he lets his own council push him around.”

“You just said you wanted representation on that very council. Why would you want that if it didn’t have influence?” Lucien pointed out. “You think the strong leader you’re following will step back once he has a High Lord’s power, willingly give you all a say, once you’ve done the dirty work for him? What happens when he has no more need of you? I wouldn’t be surprised if he disbands the council entirely.”

Quintus’s fingers balled up into fists. “He promised —“

“Did he swear it?” Lucien interrupted. “Did he bind himself with bargain magic?”

The male fell suddenly, eerily silent.

“No, that was only for his soldiers. To keep them loyal,” Lucien said. “He would not extend himself that far in return.” Then he looked at Quintus thoughtfully. "Yet you took no such oath, did you?”

Quintus flushed, his scales disappearing as his skin darkened. ”I would have taken the rebellion’s oath gladly.”

“Why was it not offered to you?” Lucien watched him intently. “Because of Fulvia?”

Quintus squirmed. “The leader… frowns on such relations. He said he would overlook it, if I proved my loyalty by completing the forest mission.”

“Then you’re even stupider than I suspected,” Lucien sputtered. “Your leader has no intention of abolishing class differences. He’s actively enforcing them, even inside his own ranks. What’s going to happen if he succeeds? Will he outlaw marriages between High and lesser fae, as was done under Nostrus?”

Quintus said petulantly, “He wouldn’t do that. Besides, it’s still better than what we’ve got now.”

Gods, the naïveté of this male, the cavalier way he’d upended his life, chasing after a half-formed dream, trusting all the wrong people, turning his back on all his loyalties. It was stupid, and impulsive, and far too familiar.

Lucien abruptly pulled back on his magic, realizing that his hands were heating up so much that he was in danger of singeing his tunic. But gods, this whole situation was just too infuriating. He seethed, “Tell me how burning down a human village full of innocent refugees makes anything better.”

Quintus shifted awkwardly on his feet. “That was a mistake. It was only supposed to be a raid. I didn’t know they were going to use fire.”

“A raid? For what?” Lucien challenged.

Quintus shook his head. “We weren’t told that.”

Bullshit, Lucien almost blurted. Instead, he folded his arms. “Really.”

“You think they’d deign to fill me in? I’m just a grunt. No one important,” Quintus said defensively.

“If that’s how you're made to feel by your leaders, I really wonder why you risked your life for their sake,” Lucien said, trying in vain to stay patient. “But yes, I do think they would have to tell you. How would you know not to destroy the very thing you were sent after?”

Quintus just stared at him sullenly.

“You risked your life for this. You obviously didn’t get what you came for. What’s going to happen now that you’ve failed?” Lucien pressed him. “Will they try again for — whatever it was?”

Too direct. He was being too forceful. He swallowed, and changed tactics. “If I were to let you go, release you to your rebel leader, will he punish you for your lack of success? Will he put you on another mission?”

But the male had settled back onto his slab of a bed, no longer answering.

Unease churned in Lucien’s gut. He could almost hear Eris exhorting him, telling him to stop being precious and get the intel by any means necessary. No more innocents should have to die or suffer, just to spare this criminal some discomfort.

Or was it his own feelings he was sparing?

Lucien had killed before, up to and including his own brothers. He’d had combat training from an early age, owned many fine daggers and other weapons, accepted that violence was necessary, that power was respected in their cutthroat world, that might made right and power triumphed over virtue. But he’d just spent the last decade trying to change that. It would be hypocritical to abandon those principles, just because he personally wanted information.

He could have scoffed at himself then. What he was doing here wasn’t noble. He was trying to compete with his mate’s chosen husband, a contest he could never hope to succeed in, and sacrificing everything he’d fought for in the process. Was he that desperate to impress Elain, that he would put Tarquin or the Consortium that risk, just so that he could say he’d never tortured a prisoner?

You can make the best possible choices you’re given, and it still won't be perfect, Elain had assured him. Implying that she approved of how he’d handled the fight at the human village, that she approved of him in some essential way. That she understood that his power had limits. He tried to cling to that, to reassure himself that she would understand now, even if he had to compromise his morals a little. She’d understand it was for a greater purpose. She trusted him at least somewhat, didn’t she?

His shoulders relaxed, releasing some of the tension he hadn’t even realized he was carrying. He’d lived with Elain’s disdain and rejection for so long that suddenly having her approval, even admiration, was an utterly disturbing and foreign sensation.

Why now? Why couldn’t she have felt that way back when he lived at the Night Court, given him a chance then? It was far too late now, a decade into her marriage.

But it was something, and he would take it.

Then his mind snapped back to something else Elain had said to him, out in the forest.

I’m not happy that I left you alone. But if I hadn’t, the rebels would have gotten Lyra.

That’s it.

“Your raid targeted a human girl,” he told Quintus. “The daughter of a rebel defector. I want to know why.”

“What?” Quintus jolted upright, then spat, “That’s ludicrous.”

Lucien smiled smugly. That reaction had been far too emphatic to be believable. “Who is the girl to the rebellion? Why her, and not her brothers?”

Quintus shrugged. “I told you, I don't know anything.”

“But you were after the human girl. What were you supposed to do if you got her?” Lucien eyed him with distaste. “Kill her?“

“You think I’d kill a child?” Quintus looked disgusted.

Lucien folded his arms, and waited.

“Well, I wouldn’t. The orders were to collect her, nothing more,” Quintus said hotly. “She was supposed to be some kind of leverage.”

Lucien tried to push back the revulsion he felt at the notion of little Lyra being used as leverage. “Why? Who is she?”

“Some human’s brat. I really don’t know. He’s supposedly holed up at the temple, advising the priestesses, or something,” Quintus grumbled. “I don’t see why our leader ever trusted humans. They’re short-lived and fickle.”

Lucien was tempted to argue on behalf of humanity, but he was finally getting somewhere, and didn’t want to risk derailing the conversation. “Why the temple?”

“No idea, I wasn’t trusted with that either,” Quintus said sulkily. “Supposedly there is an object of power, something the priestesses possess. Something that can transfer the power.”

Just like Elain Saw in her vision. She’d mentioned the temple, and extra magic kept there. How had she put it? Magic that could topple a High Lord and replace him.

Like what Amarantha did to the High Lords.

The realization send a shiver down his spine. There was magic that could do that, that had done it. All it had taken was one poisoned drink, and all of Tamlin’s power had been drained away, and all of Spring’s magic with it. Amarantha was no witch or spell-weaver, but had simply stolen her King’s spell-book, and spent a few decades deciphering its secrets, until she'd finally cobbled together enough understanding to spring her trap. But she’d never become skilled in magic-wielding — had never had to. She’d had Rhys to do all the dirty work for her.

Lucien tried to imagine what would have happened, if they’d been able to confiscate that spell-book. How much tragedy could have been avoided.

But it was far too late now. The spell-book had been returned to Hybern, and the King had used it up until his slaughter. Lucien had assumed that the King’s heirs would have inherited it, or that it would have been destroyed during the War — but now he wasn’t at all certain. What if portions had survived, after all?

Magic that could topple a High Lord and replace him. Hadn’t Eris done just that to Beron?

And if magic like that was stored at the temple — if Tarquin’s priestesses were guarding it, and hadn’t told him —

“Thank you, Quintus. You’ve been most helpful,” Lucien said quickly, straightening the edges of his tunic and heading for the door. “I'll talk to Tarquin and Cresseida, make sure you get the most lenient sentence possible. You’ll have to do penance for what you’ve done, particularly to the innocent humans you harmed. But you’ll have your chance to make amends, especially to the little girl you were going to steal, and her family. In the meantime, I’ll write to Fulvia, let her know not to worry.”

Quintus scrambled after him, wrapping his large webbed hand around Lucien’s elbow. “Wait. That was helpful? But I —” He broke off, clearly struggling. “I don’t want to be a traitor.”

Lucien turned to give him a tight smile. “You’re not a traitor, Quintus. Not truly. You’re fighting for the right things, for what every decent person should want to fight for. You just made some very stupid decisions, and picked the wrong people to trust.” He gently dislodged his arm from the male’s anxious grip. “Don’t worry, it can happen to any of us.”

He turned to leave again, but again Quintus stopped him. “If you really do write to Fulvia… will you tell her I’m sorry?”

Lucien nodded. “Hopefully soon, you’ll be able to tell her yourself.”

The male’s limpid, pale eyes grew watery. “I-I’d thought I’d never see her again. I thought you were going to —” He broke off, shuddering. “I thought I’d die screaming.”

Lucien carefully disentangled himself, and stepped into the doorway, magic sparking in the air as the wards parted for him.

“Not on my watch.”

Chapter Text

“We have no reason to turn down your offer, and many reasons to accept it. But you must be careful, Lucien,” Tarquin chided. He turned from the bay window in his mercifully empty throne room, and fixed Lucien with an expression that managed to be both stern and gentle. “These are my rebellious subjects. My problem - mine and Cresseida’s. You’ve risked too much for us already.”

“It has to be me. We both know it,” Lucien said, feeling warm inside at his friend’s concern for him, and the very un-High-Lord-like gratitude, as though Tarquin didn't have the power to command anything of anyone inside his own territory. “They’re after your power, your position. Besides, I have a vow to fulfill.”

“To the human girl, yes.” Tarquin’s handsome face relaxed into a broad smile, recalling the hysterical bout of laughter Lucien had inspired in all his friends when he’d related the story of how he’d gained entry into the warded village. “That was clever of you, to play along. But the actual Suriel would not have given her piggyback rides, I suspect.”

Lucien chuckled heartily. “I’m just lucky she didn’t try to bait me with raw chicken. Though a new cloak would have looked rather dashing.” He gestured down at himself, as though to demonstrate where his outfit was lacking, though he rather liked the ensemble he was wearing, which was more tailored to his form than what he usually wore in the heat of Summer. But that was the point - for this mission, he needed to look like an outsider.

Tarquin was now regarding him seriously. “For all you’ve done to thwart this rebellion, Lucien, I’ll pay you your weight in cloaks. Or in jewels from my trove. Whatever you desire.”

Lucien cleared his throat, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “You know I don’t need payment, Tarquin. I want to do this.” Didn’t Tarquin know how much his reform efforts were appreciated? How rare it was for a High Lord to be decent and kind? Lucien would have done anything to protect him.

Tarquin clapped a hand on his shoulder, and they set off walking together through the palace, occasionally pausing to acknowledge called-out greetings, shake hands, or to allow Tarquin to sign off on a communique or scribble out orders for his sentries and administrators. As they passed by meeting rooms and formal dining spaces, Lucien spotted Briar, seated with a bruised but smiling Linnet, presiding over what looked like a human governing council meeting. The humans had adopted Briar as their official liaison to the faerie courts, a role to which Lucien thought she was uniquely well suited.

As though to underscore her unique position, and her ability to make headway with the fae on humans’ behalf, Tamlin silently came up behind her to drape a thin shawl around her shoulders, and leaned down to murmur something into her ear. Briar’s face went a delicate shade of pink, the act of caring seeming to delight her, and and Lucien bit back his smile at the sight of Tamlin’s responding blush of pleasure. Briar’s absence from the palace, and her brief experience of danger in the forest, had lit a fire under Tamlin, overcoming any lingering reluctance he might have had to admitting that his feelings for her were serious.

Lucien was not jealous. Far from it. He knew Tamlin had struggled to get to this point, to risk his heart again. Trusting any female with his feelings, and his court, was going to be difficult. But this time, he had chosen well, for Lucien couldn’t imagine a better partner for his friend than Briar. Unfortunately, she would have a mortal lifespan, but Lucien prayed that would extend far, far into the future. Maybe the healers could even delay her life’s fading, but that would buy her some decades at most, and then—

A sudden sweet, sharp pull in his ribs snapped him from that gloomy thought.

“She’s back,” he gasped.

Tarquin turned to him, breaking off his own conversation with one of his ministers. “Who?”

“Elain. I-I feel her.” He resisted the urge to clutch at his ribs, to grab hold of the newly restored mating bond and thread his fingers through its golden magic.

“You seem surprised,” Tarquin observed.

“She said she’d return, but I couldn’t be certain. I thought her family might try to delay her, or talk her out of it.”

His mechanical eye was clicking furiously, scanning every inch of the corridor, as though Elain was somehow concealed there. He could see the bond as a faint trail of shimmering gold, winding its way through the passing courtiers, the invisible servants on their errands, the occasional human looking lost or confused or simply overwhelmed at the palace’s splendor. And although Lucien had long been used to perceiving magic in all its various forms and strengths, he was nearly overwhelmed at the mating bond’s beauty.

Almost as beautiful as Elain herself.

He forced his eyes back to Tarquin, noting the worried tension that had crept into the High Lord’s expression. “Let us go greet her together,” Tarquin suggested. “I felt something just now, as well, just now - a kernel of my own magic.”

It took Lucien only a moment to realize what he was getting at. “Feyre.”

Tarquin nodded gravely. “I cannot welcome her in, Lucien. Not like this. It will cause diplomatic trouble with her court, but I cannot set that precedent. I have already given them too much leeway.”

“Of course, you’re entirely right,” Lucien assured him. This was what the Night Court did - run roughshod over everyone else, relying on their superior might to bend the rules when it suited them.

The last time Feyre had shown up to Summer without the High Lord’s permission, at least there’d been a compelling reason. Adriata had been under siege from Hybern, and technically Varian had invited them. There hadn't been time to go through the proper channels.

But now? There was no excuse for it.

Lucien’s mind sifted through every possibility of salvaging the situation. How could he welcome Elain back, greet her as he so desperately desired, when her meddling sister was with her? He had to support Tarquin, first and foremost, as the ruler of this court, since what Feyre was doing was technically trespassing, could even be considered an act of war, but… what if Elain was offended?

They lapsed into silence as their pace quickened towards the palace entrance. Lucien forced his hands to go slack at his sides, his pace to remain confident and unhurried, but his anxiety kept ratcheting higher. Elain had sounded concerned for him, had seemed to want to see him again, but what if this ruined it? What if Feyre didn’t back down, or got Rhys involved? What if —

“Lucien?”

Elain’s soft, honeyed voice stirred him from his spiral of worries. He was outside the palace gate, and oh, there she was, looking ethereally lovely, radiant in the sunshine. His whole being ignited, his instincts prickling under his skin, as his eyes drank in the sight of her. Her dark eyes were resting on him, soft golden curls tumbling over her shoulders, the sweet cream and pink of her airy chiffon gown cascading in waves past the delectable swell of her hips.

She is married, for Cauldron’s sake, get it together.

“Elain. You’ve returned,” he blurted, then swallowed down a nervous gulp of air, desperate to collect his wits.

She took a step towards him, cautiously smiling. Smiling - at him. “You thought I wouldn’t?”

“Well of course, I believed that you would, since you said you were going to, I just wasn’t sure when, and—“ He broke off, realizing he was babbling idiotically, and strove to conjure up anything to say that would sound courteous, or charming. “I hadn’t allowed myself to hope it would be so soon.”

Was that too much? Elain was still looking right at him, beaming as though she’d enjoyed the comment. But still, that had sounded flirty, almost presumptuous, and they had an audience. Tarquin was right there, listening, along with —

“Lucien. It’s been a long time,” Feyre said, stepping up alongside her sister. He’d been so focused on Elain, he had totally glossed over the fact that the High Lady of the Night Court was right there, heavily pregnant as indeed were the rumors, looking just as he remembered her from that last Solstice party. This was what Elain’s presence did to him — stole his focus, made everyone else fade into the background. And he should have known better, for Feyre could be dangerous and unpredictable, even when she wasn’t provoking people on purpose.

But Feyre was uncharacteristically solemn, her gray eyes less sharp than he remembered. She was giving him an uncertain, searching look, as though she half-expected him to turn his back on her, or unleash a diatribe.

“High Lady,” he said, inclining his head formally.

Before Feyre could react, or gods forbid ask him questions, Elain was stepping forward again, almost as though she were positioning herself between them. “Feyre was kind enough to winnow me here, since Mor was stuck with other obligations,” she said cheerfully, though her brows were drawn slightly downwards in concern. “And I just couldn’t wait another minute to get back.”

“How very kind of her to do that,” Lucien said, throwing a significant glance towards Tarquin, who was standing stock-still, watching all of this with a wary expression.

“Oh, yes, she’s a wonderful sister,” Elain said almost too enthusiastically, patting her sister’s arm. Then, seeming to pick up on Lucien’s hint, she turned to Tarquin, and curtsied in a way that wouldn't have been out of place at a human royal ball. Lucien checked his urge to smile at the gesture, more evidence if he needed it that Elain Archeron had retained her love for her human heritage, even all these years after becoming faerie. “High Lord, it is good to see you again. I hope the refugee situation hasn’t been too much trouble?”

Tarquin found his voice at last. “Thank you, Miss Archeron. It has not been much trouble at all, thank the Cauldron. I consider it a grave failure that any citizen of my court should have spent the last decade living in squalor, hiding away in fear. They ought to have felt safe and cared for, with access to healers, and any other help that they required.”

“Oh, I’m sure you were doing your best,” Elain said quickly, and Lucien thought he that she glanced at her sister, as though anticipating some reaction. “They were too frightened of faeries. Too proud and too skittish to accept any help. If you’d insisted, they would have seen it as an abuse of power.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Tarquin said, relaxing a fraction.

“She is,” Lucien put in. He’d quickly learned to trust Elain’s insights, and his own observations of the humans lined up, anyway. “Folk like Captain Fallon would rather have died, than be forced to accept help from a faerie. Especially one in a position of power.”

“Short sighted and foolish,” Feyre tsked. Then she added, perhaps recalling her own stubborn prejudices and suspicions when she’d been human, “but understandable.”

Tarquin cleared his throat, anticipating the unpleasantness of having to tell Feyre Archeron no. “And now, I do need to return to my duties. You must forgive me if I cut our talk short.”

Now we come to it. Would Feyre accept the dismissal? Lucien’s body felt stiff with tension. He would protect Tarquin, if it came to that, but what if Elain was caught in the crossfire? Could he shield her without Feyre taking it as provocation? What if —

“Oh, of course! We wouldn’t dream of delaying you,” Elain declared brightly. “Feyre has many duties to attend to back home, don’t you, Feyre?”

If Lucien hadn’t already been fighting the urge to sweep his mate into his arms and kiss her breathless, he would have wanted to do so in that moment. He had always seen Feyre as the driving force in her family’s relationships, managing her sisters’ lives and steering them towards the decisions she thought proper, but he’d underestimated Elain’s ability to manage Feyre in return.

Should have known better than to underestimate her in anything.

“Certainly. Things at the Night Court have been very busy,” Feyre agreed, her eyes back on Lucien, making the statement almost seem like an accusation. As though he’d simply walked off the job out of a desire to spite her, not to preserve his own fraying sanity.

“Indeed. Well,” Tarquin said, his tone businesslike, but Lucien could see the relief on his face. “May the Mother grant you a safe journey home. And… congratulations.”

Feyre blinked at him, then rested a tattooed hand on her belly. “Thank you, Tarquin. Oh, and Varian sends his regards.”

Tarquin inclined his head stiffly, then shot Lucien a questioning look, as if to ask, Will you be all right out here without me?

Lucien gave him an encouraging nod. Now that it was clear that Feyre wasn’t planning on demanding to stay, some of his anxiety had eased. She was probably here deliver some message, probably a demand for the Consortium, and then she would go.

He held himself steady, his courtier’s mask firmly in place, determined to engage as little as possible. He could simply decline to answer, or give polite, disinterested platitudes as responses. He no longer worked for Feyre, or for anyone who would give her precedence over him, and there was no longer anything they owed each other.

Except that she was still his mate’s sister.

Perhaps Feyre’s motive for this little visit was personal? Perhaps she would seek to warn him to stay away from Elain, or tread carefully, to avoid Azriel’s jealous wrath. Perhaps she didn’t want Lucien being friends with her sister at all, since he’d refused to play by her court’s rules.

They all stood awkwardly, eyeing each other, until Feyre finally broke the silence. “How have you been, Lucien?”

Why do you care, he almost spat out. But Elain was regarding him with such a hopeful expression, he couldn’t bring himself to be that cutting.

“Keeping busy, as I’ve always preferred,” he answered. It had the advantage of being true, while also giving away nothing. Yes, he’d been busy over the past ten years, first trying to restore his own sanity, then carving out a place for the seasonal courts to conduct their own affairs without meddling from certain would-be High Kings. Feyre didn’t need to hear about any of that.

Feyre went on cautiously, seeming to sense his reluctance to talk to her, “I hear you and Elain had quite the adventure.”

Cauldron boil me. What had Elain told her?

What had their adventure meant to Elain, anyway?

“Elain was incredible,” he said. “She has a natural way with the people - with the children, especially. And her quick thinking surely saved many lives.”

Elain’s cheeks flushed, as though the praise flustered and surprised her. Didn’t she know how important her contributions had been?

Feyre raised a brow, as though the words had surprised her, too, but then she turned to smile at her sister. “Elain has a kind heart and generous spirit.”

Lucien nodded, grateful she’d said something they could agree on, but Elain mumbled, “Sometimes.”

Lucien wished he could talk to Elain alone just then, so that he could reassure her that she didn’t have to keep feeling shame over their past. He could feel that her apology had been genuine, for her guilt was pouring through the bond, amplified every time she looked at him. He didn’t want her to feel that every time she saw him - he wanted her to feel other feelings, instead.

You’re looking to get your dumb heart re-broken.

“Well, it sounded like things got pretty dangerous,” Feyre was saying, drawing an arm around Elain’s back. “I’m glad you were there to protect her.”

Now it was Lucien’s turn to feel guilty. He hadn’t actually protected Elain, not when he’d sent her off into the forest with the humans. She and Briar both could have perished, along with the villagers, if Elain hadn’t managed to talk sense into the rebels. Did Feyre know about the naga attack? She wouldn’t be praising Lucien then, especially when she blamed him for her own brush with nagas, all those years ago.

He’d long ago apologized for that, and anything else Feyre thought he was responsible for, not that it made any difference. He would always be the villain in her narrative, because if he wasn’t, someone else had to be - and admitting that was far too threatening.

“Well! Lucien and I have lots of work ahead of us,” Elain said pointedly, shooting him a concerned look before focusing back on her sister. “And you wanted to be back before Rhys’s meeting was over.”

Feyre was eyeing her oddly, as though she hadn’t expected to be dismissed so quickly. “That’s true,” she quickly agreed, recovering her poise, “and Nyx should be coming home from the cabin, with Cass and Nesta.”

Elain nodded, smiling softly at the mention of her dear nephew, then added, “I’m sure Nesta will want to be filled in, as well. I’m sure you’ll find the right way to tell her.”

Feyre’s facial expression said it all - though Lucien couldn’t imagine what, exactly, was so earth shattering that it had to be broken to Nesta gently.

Should I be worried?

He already knew that Nesta would blame him for any trouble Elain got entangled in - rightfully so, in this instance. But what would she do about it? He’d heard rumors about the eldest Archeron losing her powers, or giving them up, or some combination, but felt no need to test Nesta’s new limits.

“Mor won’t be able to come back here for at least a day. The interrogations have to take precedence. You’re sure you’re all right, going in alone?” Feyre asked Elain.

Lucien wondered who was being interrogated, and why Mor would be involved instead of Azriel, but all of those buzzing thoughts went far, far away as Elain’s eyes met his. “I won’t be alone,” she said.

A ripple of excitement made his stomach swoop. Does she mean me?

Of course, stupid, you’re going to walk in to the palace together. That’s all she meant by it.

But Lucien’s treacherous heart was pounding out a furious rhythm, one that he was sure the whole palace could hear plainly. Elain willingly walking someplace with him, being seen in public with him — he’d long since ceased to hope for even such simple gestures. He was the one to be avoided, the one whose name she would never mention.

It’s not like that anymore, he told himself firmly. Things have changed. She’s sorry that happened. But no matter how much things appeared to have changed between them, part of him kept expecting the old pattern.

Elain’s smile faltered a little. Had she taken his lack of answer as lack of interest? Gods, it was entirely the opposite. He was hesitating because he felt too damned much, not because he was indifferent. “Indeed not,” he said, trying not to sound too eager, too desperate. There was only so much attention he could pay her before it crossed a line.

“Any messages I can bring back?” Feyre asked, carefully not acknowledging the tension lingering in the air.

“Tell Nesta not to worry,” Elain said resolutely, her smile firmly fixed back in place, “and give Nyx a kiss for me.”

No message for Azriel, Lucien noted. But then that should not have been so surprising. Why would Elain need her sister to convey a message to her own husband? She’d probably just been with him before coming here, sharing intimacies with him —

No. He could not let himself contemplate that, not with mating instincts roiling inside him.

Feyre nodded, smiling kindly at Elain. Then she turned back to Lucien, her voice suddenly echoing at the boundaries of his mind.

Be careful with my sister, Lucien.

Lucien jolted, the unexpected intrusion knocking him off-kilter. He knew full well that Feyre had snooped around in his mind on occasion, but she’d never actually spoken to him this way before. He’d always been careful to lock down his mental shields, while leaving one small part of his mind unguarded, to give her the impression that she had full access. It had been a dangerous game to play, given that her mate was a much more practiced and powerful daemati and could have easily uncovered the deception. But, strangely, Rhys seemed to have actual scruples about invading minds without permission.

I know she has been careless with you, in the past, Feyre went on, taking his failure to answer as an invitation to keep going. But she is hurting, and disillusioned. She’s questioning everything, and looking for someone to trust. Right now, she thinks you are that person. Don’t prove her wrong.

Who hurt her, he fired back, his fists clenching. I’ll make them regret it—

They already do. It’s taken care of. That’s all you need to know about it. Feyre’s voice in his mind was sharp, uncompromising. If she wants to tell you more, she will. I just need to know you will do right by her.

Lucien’s eyes shot to Elain in alarm. She didn’t look injured, nor did he sense anything amiss through the bond, but what if he was wrong?

That worry was partially edged out by the thought that Elain had picked him to trust, of all people. He wanted to bask in that knowledge, celebrate it.

But his indignation at Feyre’s meddling, at her lack of trust in him, was tempting him to snap back in reckless fashion. How dare Feyre lecture him about being trustworthy? She had never hesitated to lie, steal, or manipulate when it suited her aims.

He directed a reply at Feyre, trying to mitigate the annoyance in his tone. I have always tried to do right by Elain, and I always will.

And then, because he couldn’t resist a good argument, he added, Which includes telling her about this conversation. I’m not going to discuss her like she’s not standing right here.

Feyre glared daggers at him, a hint of her power rumbling to the surface, but Lucien couldn’t let that deter him. He let his own magic strike out in answer, creating a neutralizing bubble around the whole balcony, so that Tarquin and Cresseida wouldn’t come running, but also to send a clear message. Despite her High Lady title, Feyre wasn’t actually any more powerful than he was — she’d gotten one drop of magic from every High Lord. Why did that entitle her to push him around?

“Feyre?” Elain’s sweet voice was tinged with worry. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Feyre said curtly, but then her tone softened as she turned more fully towards Elain. “It’s this heat. I think it's tiring me out.”

“Oh! You'd best get back to Velaris then,” Elain cried, patting her sister’s belly with solicitous concern. “Ask Nyx to make his frozen lemonade for you. He does something with the ice crystals, you’d probably understand it better than I would, since you have that kind of magic too. And he even adds cooling mint from my garden.”

“Talented lad,” Lucien commented, though the revelation hidden in her comment had left him reeling. Feyre’s little boy had Winter Court powers? He’d have to find a way to break that news to Kallias.

Elain smiled in a way that almost seemed motherly. “He is indeed. Very smart, very learned, and the sweetest little soul you can imagine.”

Feyre’s features softened into tenderness. “He really is, isn’t he?” She patted Elain’s shoulder. “He has a wonderful aunt to show him the way.”

Then, with one final significant glance in Lucien’s direction, Feyre winnowed away, leaving him alone with Elain on the balcony, to his delight and terror.

Chapter Text

You’re my mate.

He almost let the words slip, the truth of their connection striking him so forcefully that he could have crashed to his knees from the impact of it.

You have to tell her. It would be wrong not to. But could he stand it if she fled, as she’d used to?

She isn’t fleeing now. No, she was standing before him, smiling at him, as though the world hadn’t gone up in flames around them, as though she hadn’t left suddenly. As though the last decade had never happened.

Helion had said she desired the connection, but what if his judgment had been influenced by his own situation? What if she had re-established the bond by accident? What if she felt it as an intrusion?

Lucien was frozen with fear and indecision, but Elain had come a few steps closer to him, close enough that her delectable scent was filling the air. He’d once associated that scent with disappointment, with entering a room and finding her newly gone from it, but now here she was, approaching him freely, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He quashed the temptation to reach for her. He wasn’t allowed to do that, despite his instincts. She wasn’t his, just because the bond said so.

Tell her, idiot. Get it over with. She’s chosen to trust you. Don’t make her regret it.

He was a diplomat, Cauldron damn it. He was good with words, with smoothing over tough situations. He could do this — he’d faced down far more terrifying situations before.

He thought rapidly on how to approach the conversation, seeking out the perfect tone, the right amount of concern and detachment that would reassure her that he did care, but not too much, not like that, unless she wanted it to be like that, in which case he did very much care in that way, more than he could ever express…

Good with words. Right.

He clamped down on his swirling panic, trying to focus, form a plan. First he would inquire after her well-being, make sure she was fully recovered from their ordeal in the forest, and whatever had hurt and disillusioned her afterwards. Then he would ease them into the topic of mating bonds, mentioning magic and his mother and Helion, and watch carefully for Elain’s reaction. He would reassure her that he wouldn’t interfere with her life or her marriage, that he could go to any court of Prythian or find some new home on the Continent where his presence wouldn’t unduly disturb her, and maybe they could still carry on a friendly correspondence through the spelled parchment, but he would understand it if she couldn’t risk it.

At least he might be able to feel echoes of her now and again, know she was happy and thriving. Or if she did choose to break the bond again, at least this time they could go to the priestess together, and Lucien could have his mother nearby, and the healers could prepare a mind-soothing concoction…

I don’t expect anything from you, he’d tell her. I don’t want you to feel pressured, or tied to me. I just thought you should know.

Please, please don’t run away again.

He allowed himself to look at her, to truly take her in. Really, it would be rude to look away, and he was powerless to do so in any case. She was smiling, her skin almost glowing in the Summer sunlight, like a flower opening up to full blossom.

“Well, my lady —“ he began.

At the same time, Elain said, “Lucien, I — “

He chuckled ruefully, and she let out a giggle. He raised his hand towards her. “You first.”

Elain’s hands twisted in the sheer folds of her gown in that charming, nervous way she had. “Oh! Well, I just wanted to know how you were really doing.”

Me? He looked down at himself - clean and presentable, for once, thank the Cauldron. He tried to suppress his surprise at the question, at the concern she was showing for him. “I’m not sure I know that, myself,” he admitted. “I think I’m all right, though.”

“You look it.” Elain flushed an adorable pink as she said it, as though it were somehow naughty. Hope flared inside him, but he forced it back down, telling himself it was ridiculous. He wouldn’t flatter himself that she desired him. No, she was just flustered from the whole situation, that was all.

He sought out a humorous answer, to put her at ease and dispel the awkwardness, and raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You mean, I’m not covered in mud any longer.”

If anything, Elain’s flush deepened. “I mean, you look rested.”

Yes, she’d cared about that back in the village as well. Had insisted he recuperate and rest. It’s just her kind nature, seeing you as a real person, not just the mate that she rejected. Don’t read too much into it.

He clasped his hands behind his back, for the desire to reach out and touch her was becoming difficult to resist. Just one brush of that smooth lovely skin, one tousle through her rich silky hair —

“I suppose I am,” he managed awkwardly. “And yourself?”

Elain’s delicate hand waved gracefully in the air. “Oh, I’ll rest when I have a spare. moment. There’s just been so much to take care of and do.”

Like what? He was burning to ask her, yet there was no way to pose that question without prying. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, feeling wretched at his utter lack of charm, and observed, “You were called home quite suddenly.”

Elain was regarding him earnestly, something brimming in her eyes that he couldn’t name. He rooted in place, too afraid to say any more, to disrupt this moment.

Then she blurted, “I’ve moved out.”

“You — what?” He wasn’t sure his lungs were still working. Of all the possible scenarios he’d entertained, he’d never have imagined this one whatsoever. What about her husband? Her sisters?

“It was a long time coming,” she went on, her words rapid, nervous. “It wasn’t just because of what happened.”

“What happened? Did someone hurt you, Elain?” Oh, gods, his worst fears were realized. He scanned her rapidly, for bruising or scarring, evidence of harm. He’d be able to see glamoured injuries too, even the afterglow of healing magic. He stepped towards her on unsteady legs, his power building up beneath his skin, ready to shield her or lash out at an assailant, every mating instinct roaring to the surface.

His hands reached out of their own volition, but he forced them to clasp together instead. She hadn’t asked for his protection, and wouldn’t appreciate his giving in to the possessive instincts of a mated male, however well-intentioned. He tamped the power back down, and it subsided uneasily, but he’d be damned if he lost control now. “Feyre said it was taken care of, whatever it was. I-I’m sorry if I’m being intrusive.”

To his relief, Elain smiled reassuringly. Smiled — at him. “You aren’t. I want to tell you.”

You do? He almost couldn’t stand how happy that made him. He carefully kept his expression blank, nodding stoically. He mustn’t seem too eager in the face of her misfortune.

“All I’ve ever wanted, since being brought to Prythian, was to choose my own life. To have some control. And I thought I was doing that when I —“ Her hand fluttered between them.

When she broke the bond. He grimaced against the associations that recollection brought up, willing himself to stay here in the moment. He dipped his head, inviting her to go on.

“But now I think I was just afraid,” Elain went on. “Avoiding dealing with the reality of being faerie, and having magic.”

Lucien remembered her in those early days — sorrowful, emaciated, lost, suffering — and objected, “You had every right to feel that way. What was done to you was unconscionable.”

Elain’s beautiful deep brown eyes were shining. “Yes, and I struggled at first, and then things seemed better, once the War ended.”

When I was far away, out of her life entirely. It was not a welcome recollection, that she had always been better off without him.

But then Elain added, “Or so I thought at the time. But I was like those humans, up in the mountains, hiding away.” She looked past him, to the faraway ruins of the human village, and a look of such sadness and regret passed over her lovely face that he had to again stop himself from reaching for her. “I have not been poor and miserable, as they were. Just stagnant.”

“That is the life of an exile, isn't it?” he reflected, thinking about Tamlin’s efforts to give him a home in Spring. What a gods-damned relief it had been that his exile had not been hellish, even when Tamlin lost his temper, or stubbornly refused to listen to reason, or sent him to parlay with monsters like Beron Vanserra or Amarantha. It hadn’t been until Feyre and Hybern that he’d begun to question things. “You’re just so grateful to be somewhere safe, among people who won’t purposely do you harm, that you don’t notice when the walls start to close in.”

Elain swallowed, and to his horror, he saw that her eyes were filling with tears. “You really get it.”

His voice came out rough, almost despondent. “I get it, because I lived it.” But he couldn’t let the weight of all that sorrow take him, not when he was here with Elain. He pressed his hand to his heart, willing that old, ruined thing to beat steadily. “But it’s not my story of which we speak.”

“It is, and it isn’t,” Elain said.

He had no idea how to interpret that, so he was relieved when she continued talking. “This conference is the first time I have made any real contribution. I’ve spent the last decade babysitting Feyre’s son, and cultivating a fine little garden, and watching each Starfall and Solstice go by.”

That didn’t sound so very bad, especially not for a brand-new faerie recovering from a traumatic upheaval. Had he been so functional, in the first decade after Jes’s slaughter?

“Caring for younglings is very important,” he tried to reassure her, “even when they’re not the heir to a court of Prythian. Perhaps your influence on the child will do more good for the Night Court, and its neighbors, than all of its warriors put together.” One could hope, anyway.

Elain’s sweet smile made his insides flutter pleasantly. “You flatter me, Lucien.”

Yes, please. Always. He would love few things better. His mind was full of compliments he’d wanted to say to her on so many occasions, but he’d always had to suppress that instinct, censor himself around her in the past, knowing how little she would welcome the attention.

“It’s not flattery if it’s true. I’ve seen how good you are with children.” He flushed, then cast about for a way to cool his heated nerves, to bring the conversation back to reality and far away from all thoughts of Elain’s maternal virtues. “And I also know the boy’s parents. He didn’t learn sweetness from either of them.”

Elain protested, “Feyre is very sweet to her son and family.”

Lucien could have slapped himself, for running his stupid impulsive mouth, criticizing Elain’s beloved sister. Whatever old history he had with Feyre, she had always protected and cared for Elain, and he ought to be more properly grateful.

Elain must have seen his chagrined expression, for she added, “But you’re right, Nyx won’t learn to treat the world at large with kindness, to care about anyone outside his circle, by following his parents’ example.”

Even this mild criticism was a relief to hear. He wanted Elain to be able to see her family’s blind spots, so that she would not defer to their judgment without question, or defend them out of loyalty even when they were in the wrong.

“Still, I don’t want to just be a devoted aunt, even if Nyx will someday rule the Night Court. I don’t want to just influence the world through others.” Elain’s words were so passionate, so heartfelt, that he could only stare, wondering all over again how the Mother had seen fit to link this kind and hopeful soul with his tarnished, shattered one. “When I realized that there were humans in Prythian, and that I’d been ignoring them for the last decade, I felt like I had to do something. Take action. Human lifespans are so short, and I felt guilty that I’d been so comfortable and oblivious.”

Lucien frowned. “That’s a bit harsh, isn't it?”

“Maybe I am being harsh on myself,” Elain shrugged. “But I have to be, for no one else ever is.”

Anger churned in Lucien’s gut. Those were Eris’s cutting words from the forest, spoken as political weapons and out of bitterness, spilling from her lips as though the whole truth were in them. But then he saw that Elain was watching him closely, and he tried to rein himself in again, not wear his heart so much on his sleeve.

“I was such a mess, during the War, maybe they were just relieved that I seemed stable, and didn’t want to push their luck any further. And no one else in my family saw the urgency of the human problem. They wanted to use this conference to fix their trade deficits.”

Of course they did. Everyone had thought as much, and treated the Night Court delegation accordingly.

Elain’s face pinched, and Lucien realized he’d scoffed his thought aloud. Was he trying to drive her away? She was going to regret ever not avoiding him, if he wasn’t careful.

“I don’t want to be unfair to them,” Elain said diplomatically. “They had some valid concerns, especially with getting things like herbs for medicines.”

That gave him pause. Was the Night Court’s trade imbalance really that dire?

“But I wanted to represent humans at the conference, to make sure we didn’t lose focus entirely.” Elain let out a self-deprecating laugh. “My efforts were for me, more than the actual humans, but I’d like to think I did some good for them, anyway.”

Did she have any idea how monumental it was that she’d earned those suspicious humans’ trust? Or that she’d ensured that humans had their own delegation? Or that she’d put Tarquin’s courtiers in their place, making their bigotry less of a threat? Or her role in helping to save the village’s younglings? Why did it matter whether she benefited from those efforts as well? In a world where most people were unabashedly selfish, justified lying and stealing and even killing in the name of protecting their own interests, Elain was a beacon of virtue.

“You did. More than you even know,” he objected. Elain was biting her full bottom lip, clearly unconvinced, so he went on, “And I think you’re selling yourself a bit short. No one has entirely pure, uncomplicated motives. If you took this chance to improve your own life, in addition to helping people, no one will fault you for it.”

“They might.” There was the slightest edge to her tone, the source of which he could well imagine. He tried not to wince at it. How could he reassure her that he would defend her to Eris, to Vassa, to any other detractors?

“Then they’d be wrong,” he said firmly, wanting so much for her to believe it, believe him. “I was there, remember? I saw you in action.”

You were magnificent. If only he had the courage to say so.

Change the subject, before she starts to find you creepy.

The part of him that was still a courtier managed to observe, “I didn’t know commodities were that scarce at the Night Court, to the point where medicines were in short supply.”

Elain looked a little disconcerted, like she really didn’t want to talk about the court she’d just left behind, but allowed, “I’ve been growing some in my garden.”

He smiled. “See? You have been selling yourself short.”

Through the bond, he could feel something - a fluttery excitement that surely couldn’t be on his account. Maybe the talk of gardens reminded her of happier times?

He tried to keep a neutral expression, for he hadn’t yet revealed that he did feel a bond, and it was wrong of him to react to feelings that were not rightfully his to perceive in the first place. “I’m sure there are ways to ease the trade barriers, at least so that the healers can get essentials.”

He could almost hear Eris’s suspicious voice in his mind, warning him that this whole heart-to-heart talk was a Night Court ploy, using Elain’s wiles to play on his sympathies. But he could feel Elain’s sincerity, as well as her genuine relief, as she replied, “I’m sure there’s some concession you can ask for in exchange.”

“There’s only one that I can think of,” he said, not relishing the thought. “Marta Beddor wants a tribunal.”

Elain paled, swallowing, but declared, “Then she’ll get one.”

Did she understand the magnitude of such a concession? Rhys would be admitting he was subject to the rule of law, submitting to the judgment of his peers. The consequences to the Night Court, if the judgment went against him - which it almost certainly would, even if Helion voted in Rhys’s favor and Dawn abstained - could be far-reaching. And what of Feyre being held liable, for giving Clare Beddor’s name to save herself, or being charged with crimes against Tamlin’s people? It was too unbelievable to even consider.

He raised an eyebrow at Elain. “I doubt Rhys’s pride would allow it.”

But to his surprise, Elain demurred. “He’ll come. I have Seen it. I told him, before I left, that if he would do anything for his court and family, that ought to include taking responsibility for his choices.”

Holy shit. She’d said that to Rhys’s face? How he longed to know more of that confrontation, or understand what her vision had shown her. But he was forced to satisfy himself with a wry smile, and refrain from asking any more questions. She’d told him before that she was hesitant to share visions too precipitously, lest she change the outcome, and he had to respect that.

“Well said. Rhys wants to have it all ways,” he said. “He wants to play at the monster and villain, but then explain his actions away as secretly virtuous. Like we should be grateful for those years of cruel treatment. And your sister plays right into that narrative.” Then his hands clasped and unclasped nervously, as though they could snatch up those impulsive words and take them back. “Sorry, I just —“

But Elain’s brows were drawn together, making an adorable tiny wrinkle pop up between them that he wanted to kiss away. “Why be sorry? What did you say that was inaccurate?”

“Nothing, just — Rhys is your brother-in-law. You live in his court.” Lived, anyway. He still wanted to know just what had driven her out, and even more so, what had convinced her keepers to let her go. “And I probably shouldn’t be criticizing your sister to you.”

“No, Lucien. I want you to be honest,” Elain insisted.

Could he take that at face value? She’d thanked him for his honesty once before. But if she knew the full extent of his grievances, she might find that she preferred his silence, after all. He mutely shook his head, not trusting himself to say so.

Elain frowned. “I heard all about what Feyre did in Spring, from the refugees who escaped.”

Oh, hells. Cauldron knew what those Spring faeries had told her. That they could believe he would cheat on his Cauldron-granted mate with her own sister, who’d been betrothed to his best friend and savior — it was a shame he would never escape fully. And now Elain had heard all about it?

But Elain wasn’t finished. “And, I told her what I thought of those actions.”

“You did?" His mechanical eye clicked and whirred as he stared wide-eyed at her. She’d defended him to Feyre? She’d taken her precious sister to task, on his behalf?

Elain was nodding, her face so kind, so understanding. Like she truly didn’t blame him. “I did. I care about her, and I want her to be the best person she can be. The best ruler for her court, and the best mother possible for her children. And she can’t do that if she’s above criticism.”

Mother above. He whistled appreciatively. “No wonder you’re moving out.”

Elain let out a trilling laugh that made him feel warm and tingly all over. “That wasn’t even why. Though it did make it easier to say my piece,” she conceded, “knowing I would be putting some distance between us. I don’t know how much will really change, after a few conversations, but I can hope, anyway.”

“It’s the best hope we have.” He was smiling at her so broadly that it felt like his face would split. He probably looked like an utter fool, but he couldn’t help it. Elain was so charming, so endlessly surprising, that he was beguiled beyond reason. “You're a wonder, Elain,” he gushed, unable to stop himself. “I’ve never met someone who can make people listen more than you do. You could convince a fish to live out of water.”

Like me at the Night Court, he added silently.

Elain laughed again, and he dared step closer to her, close enough to observe the spattering of cute freckles on the bridge of her nose, the deeper brown and gold flecks in her lovely dark eyes, the soft silky smoothness of her skin that he wanted to caress. He longed to reach for her, to touch her, do something, and it was the most exquisite torture to just look his fill, to focus on the conversation.

Elain seemed to draw herself up, squaring her shoulders and clasping her slender fingers together, as though she had marshaled herself to some final decision. Perhaps the pleasantries were finally over, and she trusted him enough to reveal what had happened?

Sure enough, when she spoke again, she seemed to be setting the scene for her story. “Just before you and I went into the forest, I got a letter from my friends. There was going to be fighting up in the Illyrian mountains, a final battle to end their rebellion.”

Lucien nodded, surprised she was willing to mention the long-simmering unrest in Illyria, but chose not to interrupt to comment on it. The Consortium had heard many rumors of rebellion, but now he had his confirmation. He could mention it at their next meeting, but what would they do with that intelligence, especially knowing how he’d come by it? Would they ask him to turn his charms on Elain, to try to get more Night Court secrets out of her? The thought made him want to vomit. He couldn’t betray her trust in him, now that it finally existed.

“I didn’t give it too much thought,” Elain was continuing her tale. “I figured Nesta, and Azriel and Cassian, were capable warriors, and would take care of each other. And I was too focused on what we were doing.”

Cauldron, how naughty that had sounded. Lucien frantically ran through his recollections from their days in the forest, turning echoing interaction over in his mind. He’d been scrupulous with Elain, far more so than he typically was with females. But what if her husband hadn’t seen it that way?

Elain looked flushed, like she indeed felt some measure of guilt on the matter, and Lucien began to panic. “Did they want you to come home? And then got worried when they couldn’t reach you?” Shame flooded him, and he shook his head to try to clear the woozy sensation. “Of course your husband would be frantic, to come home from a battle and find out you were missing. Especially once he found out that I was there with you.”

He couldn’t look at her anymore. The enormity of what he’d done was hitting him, all at once. He’d ruined her life, forced her into conflict with her husband and family by extension, and she’d had to flee the Night Court because of it. The fact that she wasn’t furious with him was boggling his mind. He turned from her, bracing his hands on the balcony railing, staring at the city far below without really seeing it.

Now maybe she’ll walk away, as she always used to do before. And this time, he’d actually deserve it.

Her voice behind him was gentle, almost plaintive. “Lucien?”

Oh gods, he couldn’t stand it. He gripped the railing, for if he didn’t, he felt he would plummet and never stop falling, not even with the rocks and ocean to break his descent. “If my actions have caused you any distress, or made trouble between you and your family, if you’ve had to leave because you were with me —“

He could almost feel her eyes on his back, like she could see right into him, all the things he’d meant to keep hidden, and he hunched inward, bowing his head, as though he could hide any part of himself from her.

“No. Cauldron, no. You’ve done nothing wrong, Lucien.”

His name on her lips — it was too much, too enticing. Then he felt the slightest brush of her fingers against his shirt fabric, in between his shoulder blades, and that drove him to a whole new level of madness. Her fingers were gentle at first, tentative, making a slow circling motion, then pressed down so that the heat of them caressed his skin through the thin shirt fabric.

He barely dared breathe, holding as still as he could, terrified he’d startle her. She was at his back somewhere, her gentle honeyed scent enveloping him like an embrace, and then, holy gods, she was stepping closer, the heat of her body radiating through him. He forced himself to root in place, gripping the railing until he feared he might melt and warp the metal, for the instinct to whirl around and give in to his desires was pulsing through him, a sharp sweet longing that urged him to touch her, press his fingers to her skin, to close that last bit of distance between them.

Elain’s voice vibrated pleasantly through the warm air, and he could barely suppress his shudder. “You’ve done no harm to me. Not now, and not ever.” She was smoothing strands of his hair, then twining several around her fingers, tugging lightly in a way that sent jolts of desire through him. “I know you’d never be capable of it.”

No — he’d never hurt her, not knowingly. But did she know what happened to females he loved, how he always tried and failed to protect them?

“I have no reason to doubt you, Elain,” he managed to get out, every word a struggle. “It’s just, I already ruined your first marriage, and if it turns out I’ve also ruined your second, I don’t know how you could ever forgive me.”

He didn’t dare turn to glance at her, but imagined her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink, her lovely eyes flashing, as she declared, “No, Lucien. Graysen is the one who ruined things, not you. He was bigoted and cruel to me when I most needed kindness. Not at all the person I thought I loved.”

Lucien happened to think that Graysen Nolan was a spoiled, pompous prick, as vile a fae-hater as he had ever met. But Elain had seen something in the male that she had cherished, even as she now perceived his flaws, so Lucien held his tongue.

“Even if I’d never been turned faerie,” Elain said, “he never would have truly accepted me, not after he found out I had a fae sister. I would have had to disown my family, and even then he wouldn’t have trusted me fully.”

That was all eminently true, yet no one advising the Archeron sisters had seen fit to point that out at the time. Certainly not Rhysand, who was supposedly so cunning and clever. He’d left his mate’s sisters at their human manor, even after the Attor had attacked Feyre right near the estate, signaling to Hybern that the family was vulnerable. At the very least, Elain should have gone to the Nolan estate for her own protection.

But then we never would have met. Perhaps that would have been a mercy, as much as his very soul recoiled from the notion. He would have gladly suffered an immortal lifetime never having known his mate, rather than having her suffer for one gods-damned second.

Elain was closer to him now, her fingertips tracing the edge of one of his scars, and she murmured, “I haven’t spared Graysen a thought in a decade.”

That was at least some comfort, and he tried to relax into the sensation, especially as Elain’s palm pressed into his back. It might as well have been a brand on his skin, for every place she touched was marked indelibly in his mind, imprinted with the memory of her.

“But you do have a husband.” He hoped it sounded matter-of-fact, not bitter.

“I did,” she said softly.

So her marriage was over, after a decade. He should have been relieved, for at least he wasn’t mated to a married female, but he was too anxious for her to rejoice in it. Had it been like Tamlin’s disaster with Feyre? Elain seemed all right, but what if she was downplaying the trauma?

“Azriel and I parted on amicable terms,” Elain explained, in response to his unspoken question. “I bear no ill will towards him, and I know he feels the same about me.”

The mere thought of it being otherwise sparked Lucien’s magic, like he was gearing up for a battle. “He didn’t —“ he began, uselessly waving his hand out over the railing, struggling to articulate his fears. But she was so calm, and her hand on his back was grounding him, and his reasoning finally kicked in. “I suppose if he’d hurt you, Nesta would have killed him, before I could even get a blow in.”

“He wouldn’t ever hurt me, or any female,” Elain replied quickly, almost defensively. “But you’re right about Nesta. She left for the mountains, she was so angry.”

He was glad Elain couldn’t see his face, contorted with fury, but he couldn’t suppress the low growl in his throat. What had Azriel done that could have so pissed off Nesta? Careful, don’t scare her, the last thing she needs in her life is another violent asshole.

He forced control into his voice as he managed to answer, “So he didn’t hurt you physically, but he must have done something.”

Elain’s voice hitched the slightest fraction. “He discovered a mating bond with someone else.”

The truth hit Lucien like a bolt of lightning. Of course the Shadowsinger would have a mate, like both of his brothers. He’d merely delayed finding her, because he’d married Lucien’s mate instead.

The tiny flame of hope that had flared to life in his chest snuffed out abruptly. Wrong, this was all wrong, he’d been wrong. He’d been a fool to even stand here, for daring to entertain the possibility that she might care for him on his own merits. Suddenly, her hand on his back, which had both riled and comforted him, felt like a torment.

He arched away from her, his muscles locking up, and he whispered, “Then you weren’t unhappy with him — then you still feel —“

He needed to escape, to run. He couldn’t let her see him like this, couldn’t make his dumb feelings her problem. He had to go, now.

He’d taken exactly one stumbling step to the right, intending to plunge himself into some dark hole where no one could find him, before Elain’s fingers were bunching up in his shirt fabric, restraining him.

But it was her words that truly seized him, kept him pinned to the spot. “Don’t go, Lucien. Stay.”

How he’d longed to hear her ask that of him, even once, during those miserable days in Velaris. How he’d looked for any sign she wanted his presence. How he’d lingered too long before departing for the Continent, hoping against hope she would reach for him, command him to stay.

And now that she was, all these years later — he couldn’t possibly disobey.

He went still, hands briefly flailing in the empty air, for he’d lost track of where the balcony railing was, where anyone or anything was except Elain’s hold keeping him anchored. There was only the bright sunlight, and the lulling crashing of waves in the harbor, the distant hum and clatter of a bustling palace beyond some far wall, and Elain, Elain behind him, and the mating bond fierce and golden and strong.

His shoulders dropped, his head tipping back, as he felt Elain close in, maddeningly, tantalizingly close. Her hand was nudging his braid to the side, and her other hand was resting on his shoulder, her delectable curvy body pressing against him. She’d embraced him impulsively out in the forest, when they’d both been frantic and half-wild from battle. But now, here, in the calm light of day, in full view of anyone who might glance out a palace window, it was far different.

Whatever else happened, whatever joy or heartache, this time Elain had asked him to stay.

His lungs expanded in vain, trying hard to get air in, his heart thundering out an erratic rhythm, and Elain’s hand reached around him, pressing over it. Surely she could feel how fiercely it was pounding.

Touch her, hold her, taste her —

Elain’s words vibrated through him, as though she were speaking them directly into his core. “I knew I had to leave the Night Court, even before I found out about Azriel’s mate. That only made my decision easier. No one will question me now, or try to talk me out of it. It’s the perfect excuse for me to make the fresh start I wanted.” Her forehead pressed into his back, her laugh rolling deliciously along his spine, and he barely resisted the groan that tried to escape him. “I’ve always taken the easy way out, I suppose this is no different.”

Lucien frowned. Why must she judge herself so severely? “There’s nothing easy about this, Elain. You’d be leaving the only home you’ve had in Prythian, your sisters. Your friends and loved ones.”

Her body was so warm, so soft, so fucking tempting pressed close to him. ”I had thought to make a new home somewhere,” she said softly. “Make new friends, and — loved ones.” He could almost feel the flush rising in her as she said it, the subtle tightening of her fingertips.

Gods, yes. He threaded his fingers around hers, pressing her hand closer to his heart. Here — it’s yours, if you want it. It’s always been yours.

His other hand gripped the railing, holding on for dear life, or the ocean churning far below would rise up and engulf him, drag him down to a glorious oblivion. Or he would fly away into empty air, too light and giddy to touch real land again.

Elain’s hold on him felt fervent, insistent, and he wondered at it, even as he craved more and more of it. She was alone right now, perhaps feeling vulnerable, and that realization tempered his euphoria. “I have no doubt you can do anything,” he croaked. “But is that what you want, Elain?”

“Yes,” she declared, with no uncertainty whatsoever. “I want that.”

Me too. So fucking much.

He brushed the back of her hand with his fingertips, marveling at the feel of her skin, the simple pleasure of being able to touch her and have it be welcomed. This could still go to shit later, if she decided she missed her family or became disillusioned with him, if the mating bond repulsed or frightened her, but at least he would have this. He would enfold this memory deep in his soul, cherish and protect it for all his existence. He would remember what it felt like to be held by her, what it felt like when she liked and trusted him.

As his fingers made their slow exploration, Elain shifted behind him, her breaths coming faster, her fragrance and heat becoming richer, more intoxicating, like what he was doing was affecting her, and gods, if that was truly what was happening, he was going to lose it. He’d already been half-hard, just from the proximity of her, just from these most innocent of touches, but now it was all he could do to steel himself against the urge to spin around and crush his mouth to hers. Maybe she wanted that, but what if she didn’t? What if he ruined everything by being too forward?

He almost pulled away then, to preserve his own shredding sanity, but Elain’s hold on him tightened, and fuck, he didn’t have it in him to truly resist. His breath stuttered in and out, fingers trembled against the back of her hand, and she reached up and clasped them, interlacing them with her own and pulling him closer, her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades.

Yes, keep me here. Make me yours, like I’ve always been meant to be.

He was tempted to just surrender, to just have this and damn all the consequences. But what if she found out about the bond afterwards, and felt betrayed? She deserved to go forward with both eyes opened, fully understanding the forces at play. Yes, he’d blurted out the truth last time, much to his detriment, but things were different now, weren't they? Hadn’t he resolved to be honest with her, to prove he was worthy of being trusted?

“Elain, there’s something you should know,” he said reluctantly. “Something that might be influencing your decision.”

Elain said nothing, only shifted against him, and he forced himself to go on, hating the bond even as he desperately desired it, for it made everything far too fraught. “I don't expect anything, and I don’t want to frighten you,” he said in a rush, and now that he’d started, the words tumbled out in an avalanche of confusion, not at all the careful speech he’d rehearsed in his mind. “Just because you’re moving on from your marriage doesn’t mean that this has to mean anything. I’ve never wanted you to feel shackled to me, or stuck with me out of obligation, or —“

“Lucien.” She pressed her chin into his back, sounding almost amused. “What is it you’re saying?”

Just say it. Say it to her face. You owe her that much.

He carefully turned, keeping hold of Elain’s hand and gently gathering up her other one as well, needing that reassuring contact a few moments longer. Then he looked at her, in all her loveliness and grace, and was momentarily struck stupid all over again. She was looking up at him, at him, with an intense expression, her wide eyes shining with anticipation, her lips slightly parted, and when their eyes met, she gave a little gasp of breath.

He blurted, “Do you feel it?”

Her brows rose, and she blinked for a moment, but then her lips curved into a mischievous smile. Gods, he’d thought her beautiful before, but that affectionate, slightly teasing expression gave her a whole new aspect that was far too alluring. “If you mean our mating bond,” she said, “I’ve felt it ever since the lake.”

“What? But then I — then you —“ he stuttered, his words just as incoherent as his thoughts exploding every direction. The bliss of hearing her say our mating bond, the shock that she’d felt it for days, the fact that she was still standing here with him, touching him willingly — it was all too much, too unbelievable.

“I almost told you, a few times, but I didn’t know if you’d be uncomfortable. We hadn’t spoken or seen each other in so long, and I’d hurt you so much, and I just didn’t want you to resent me.”

Elain’s fingers felt warm and solid against his, so this wasn’t a dream, wasn’t his fevered imagination taking over. She was really there, standing before him, smiling up at him, though there was a hint of nervousness that he wondered at. Had she really thought he’d resent her? The concept was almost laughable to him. Yes, he’d been hurt, devastated by her actions before, but now things were truly different. Or they could be, if he just had the courage for it.

“I liked that we were becoming friends, and I just wanted to let it happen?” Elain said. “I hope you don’t despise me now, for keeping it secret.”

She was concerned for his feelings, nervous about scaring him away. Warmth bloomed in his chest, making the bond glow a soft gold in his vision.

“No, Elain, I don’t despise you,” he said, eager to soothe her sudden anxiety. “I felt something too, in the forest, but I told myself it couldn’t be that. And when I finally did figure it out, I thought you’d be uncomfortable. You were married, I thought happily, and I didn’t want to ruin anything by blurting it out, again.” He could have laughed at himself now - how careful and cautious he’d been, when she’d known before he did.

He could feel strands of hair plastered to his face, evidence in case he needed it of what a wreck he was, and he grinned sheepishly as he smoothed them away. “I feel like the most colossal idiot.”

Elain murmured, “Don’t talk about my mate that way.”

A delicious shudder rolled through him. “You don’t know how long it’s been, since I let myself dream of hearing you say that.” A dozen years, by his calculations, ever since that first Solstice after the War, when she’d spent his whole visit hiding in the kitchen, and he’d endured Feyre’s scorn instead. That had been the day he’d truly lost hope, about everything having to do with the Night Court.

But Elain was gazing up at him now, her intelligent eyes sparkling, and all that heartache seemed far, far away, like it belonged to some other person. “Say what? Mate?”

Gods, yes. That. He could hear her say it over and over, almost begged her to repeat it now.

“Is it too strange for you?” Elain asked him, her forehead scrunched with concern.

“It’s strange,” he said, grinning like an utter besotted fool. “Strange and wonderful.”

He could feel her response in the grasp of her fingers, the lingering gaze of her lovely brown eyes, the little hitches of breath as the bond brought his reactions to her, and vice versa. It should have been weirder, more intrusive, but instead he just felt full, like he was finally experiencing the world as it ought to be.

“You don’t mind it, though? The bond, I mean,” Elain persisted, her eyes scanning him, as though examining him for signs of discomfort.

He could have laughed aloud at the question. Did he mind fulfilling the role he was born for, the purpose the Mother had laid out for him? Did he mind getting what he’d always wanted, the chance to love Elain as she deserved, to make her as happy as she was making him?

He let himself reach for her, brushing the smooth skin of her cheek with his fingertips, then a loose curl of her silken hair, and then finally tilting her face up to his. She looked up at him with a radiant smile, her lips parted, and his own lips tingled with anticipation. “I don’t mind, Elain,” he murmured, “I don’t mind at all.”

Elain reached for him, grasping his face, her fingers plunging into his hair, and he moved naturally towards her, letting her guide him, nearly bursting with want as her eyes fluttered closed. Oh, gods, is this really happening?

Then she kissed him, and he had his answer.

Lucien’s own eyes closed as sensation flooded him, as the warm sweetness of Elain’s lips on his overwhelmed him. He kissed her, reveling in the first tingling rush of pleasure, the spark of need ignited through the bond that set his whole body humming. Suddenly he needed to touch her, to feel her underneath his hands, or he would go mad with longing. He embraced her with one arm, keeping her tucked in close, and let his other hand trail down her face, down her long slender neck, towards her collarbone and her shoulder.

He longed to lean down, to brush his lips along the smoothness of her skin, but her lips were moving on his, heat and pleasure coursing through him, and he kissed her and kissed her again, shivering when her hands began to move, caressing his ears, tugging at his hair, trailing tingles down his neck and shoulders. Elain pulled back then, panting for breath, before dragging them back together, responding eagerly when he let his lips open so that he could taste her. Kissing Elain was a fucking revelation, arousing as hell, like she was the first female to ever touch him, and he wanted more and more of her.

Pulling back from her was a torment, a sacrilege, but he kept his forehead pressed to hers, keeping her close, breathing her in. “Elain,” he gasped, struggling to breathe deeply.

Elain’s voice was so melodic, lovely music to his ears. “Yes, Lucien?”

Say my name again, he almost pleaded. Or mate — she could call him that too.

But he couldn’t just lose himself in the feel of her, and forget the precariousness of this, how she had just left her marriage and court. He couldn’t rush them into an oblivion of pleasure, only to find that she was miserable afterwards. “I want this so much, I want you so much,” he panted, “I just want to be sure that this is what you want.”

Elain stared at him, and then she laughed — a throaty, full-bodied, delightful laugh, and he could feel how her desire flared along with it. His body went hot, arousal stirring deep inside him, so strongly that she undoubtedly felt it. He had always tried to control those sorts of urges, knowing she would find them intrusive. But now, with how she’d just kissed him, she had to know what she was doing to him, the delicious agony he was in that he never wanted to end.

Elain’s warm fingers trailed down his face, brushing against the scars raked into his cheek. “I think you can answer that as well as I can.”

He groaned, needing to get his lips back on her, but managed to rein himself in long enough to say, “It’s just that you’ve just left your marriage, and you’re feeling the bond’s influence. I just want to make sure you won’t regret this.”

Elain’s arms drew around his neck, coaxing their faces close again. “What I regret,” she said softly, “is not giving you a chance in the first place.” And then she reached up to kiss him again, as though to drive home her words’ sincerity.

Lucien stayed close, murmuring, “Then give me a chance to do this properly. Let me court you, Elain.”

He knew all about human courtship, what was expected of a man wooing a lady. If only Leith Archeron were still alive, Lucien could have formally asked for his blessing — not his permission, for no Archeron female would be talked into or out of what she wanted, regardless of obstacle. Indeed, in choosing another male over her mate, Elain had defied the very Cauldron.

It was a deflating recollection, but Elain seemed to sense the dark direction his thoughts had taken, for her smile turned a bit sad. “I think I’m the one who should be courting you. After how I treated you before, I should be the one making the most effort.”

Lucien’s heart swelled at her words, the sincerity behind them, but he decisively shook his head. Elain’s love and desire were what he wanted, not guilt or obligation. He didn’t want her to lavish him with affection out of a need to make up for the past. He wanted her to come to him with a whole heart, unburdened and enthusiastic. He wanted to make new memories with her, not get lost rehashing the old, sad ones.

“I don’t want the past coming between us,” he said, “or influencing how we treat each other. No more guilt, no debts to repay. For either of us.”

He could almost hear his friends’ objections, but also her family’s, for he had had a role in her trauma, however unwilling. But now that they’d each apologized, and forgiven the other, couldn’t they finally be happy?

Elain had been nervously watching him, but now she nodded, as though he’d posed the question aloud. Then she rose on her tiptoes and kissed him, and it was the perfect and most glorious answer.

Chapter Text

Lucien’s hands tingled with the feel of Elain’s skin, the thin silk of her dress yielding to his explorations. Her body was pressed close to him, delicious heat flooding through him. She was kissing him, her tongue darting out to play with his, teasing him, riling him. The bond between them hummed with energy, amplifying and heightening each sensation. He could feel her desire, her sincerity, radiating into him like a caress. He’d shut himself off from the bond, afraid of being intrusive or scaring her off, and then had lost the bond itself for so long, that the full intensity of it was almost too good to bear.

He could sweep her up into his arms right now, winnow her somewhere much more private, though a naughty, possessive instinct in him wanted everyone to see them. He could have forsaken the world and everything in it, and surrendered himself to the bliss of finally, finally having her in his arms, choosing him, wanting him.

Go slow, you said you would court her properly.

And he truly meant to do that, even if his cock was in emphatic disagreement.

The part of Lucien that was still rational, still a diplomat and politician, warned him that he couldn’t indulge in his own private pleasures, that there were people counting on him, missions to accomplish, rebellions to prevent. Besides, he wanted Elain with no interruptions, no chance of a crisis stealing his focus, so he could give her his undivided attention.

He very reluctantly drew back from the kiss, just enough to drink in the view of her looking up at him, right at him, a lovely flush across her delicate features. He couldn't help the way his hands tightened on her waist, or the shiver that rolled through him at the sudden loss of her heat pressed against him, and his voice was a broken, jagged mess as he forced out the words. “Gods, Elain, this feels too good, and I’m supposed to be on a mission right now.”

She would understand, he prayed. She would feel how desperately he wanted this, wanted her. He would do his job, fulfill his vow to Lyra, and prevent a catastrophe, and then he would be back for Elain, and he would make her forget they were ever interrupted.

Elain ran her fingers along his brow, which he suddenly realized he’d scrunched up with tension. His muscles instinctively relaxed under her touch, and she smiled softly, even as she protested, “A mission? But it’s barely been two days since the forest.” She bit her bottom lip in a way he found utterly distracting. “Is it the rebels?”

He should have known better than to think he could just slip away without an explanation. Whether due to her Seer powers, or her own courtier’s instincts and intellect, Elain always seemed to be one step ahead of him.

He smoothed back a loose strand of her hair, the feather-light silky texture divine under his fingertips. “Right, as always. I really wish I didn’t have to. But time is rather of the essence.” The temple loomed behind her, its pearlescent walls reflecting the sunlight back onto the expanse of the water. He shoved down his apprehensions, telling himself that it was not too late, and tried to reassure them both. “Luckily, where I must go isn’t far.”

But Elain seemed to sense his anxiety, for her hands tightened on his shoulders, and gods, please, yes, his body responded instinctively to the small, possessive gesture. She wanted him near her, wanted him to stay. That realization settled into him uneasily, as though there was nowhere to fit so much relief and happiness.

“Are you going to the temple?” she asked him.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “How did you know?”

But then he laughed at his own silly error. Of course she knew. Her Seer powers provided her insights he couldn’t possibly imagine. “Never mind. Stupid question.”

Elain laughed too, catching his meaning. “I Saw myself at the temple. Perhaps that means I should accompany you.”

Oh, gods. His thoughts were thrown into turmoil. Keep her out of it, keep her from danger, his instincts warned him, even as the mating bond demanded that he keep her in sight, that he could protect her far better when he could see her. Then again, though he had no guarantees the palace was safe, surely that was the better option?

But she Saw herself there. Did that mean it was destined to happen? Would she tell him if she’d Seen a bad outcome, or try to discourage him from going? What if her visions hadn’t shown her everything? She hadn’t Seen the rebel attack on the village, after all. She was powerful, not omnipotent.

His eye buzzed unpleasantly as he grappled with his limited options. He could deny her, risk hurting her feelings, and he’d never forgive himself if he left her behind “for her own good”, only for her to die in an attack on the palace. But what if she did come with him, and he was leading her right into danger?

“I’m not sure how I could explain your presence without raising suspicions,” he finally said, which was true, even though it wasn’t his primary objection. “I’m supposed to be delivering a message from a former rebel, and escorting foundlings and their keepers to safety. And there may be active rebels there, trying to steal or take something by force.”

Elain was looking up at him, but she had a faraway look in her eyes, as though some memory or vision was dancing before them. “The parchment,” she said softly, hesitantly. “I Saw a scroll of parchment on an altar. In my vision, I was reaching for it.” She bit down on her lip, as though more words were on the tip of her tongue, and she was consciously keeping them from being spoken.

Lucien sucked in a breath, both awed by the power she wielded, and worried at what it could all mean. “Then you truly have Seen this.”

Elain nodded, a cautious half-smile on her perfect lips. “I don’t know for certain what the scroll was for, but I could tell that it was important.”

He reached out for her, unable to resist touching her any longer. It was hell to limit himself to touching her shoulders, letting his fingers make slow circles over her skin, but he had to try to stay focused. “I have my suspicions of what it could be. And if I’m right, it’s very important that we get to it first, before the rebels get their hands on it.”

“At the least, they believe it’s important, if they’re trying to steal it,” Elain mused, her lovely deep eyes sparkling. “That alone is reason enough to not let them have it.”

How could he argue with such impeccable logic? He grinned at her. “I like the way you think, Elain."

Her cheeks flushed with exquisite color, as though that clumsy excuse for a compliment had truly pleased her. “What if it really is extra magic?” she asked. “Like what Eris used to become High Lord?”

Fuck.Lucien’s hands tensed on her shoulders. He’d surmised that something like that might have happened, but how had Elain come by that suspicion? Had the Night Court’s shadows infiltrated Autumn? Was this common knowledge? No, they would have tried to weaponize that against Eris already, he tried to reassure himself. He was tempted to ask her if she’d shared that suspicion with her sister or Rhysand, but that would sound too accusatory?

He tried to modulate his reaction, to sound curious rather than panicked. “Did you See that in a vision, too?”

“Not exactly.” She reached up and clasped his hand in hers, and the warmth of her touch, the care and comfort within it, smoothed down the edges of his worry. He folded his own hands around hers, reveling in the fact that he could, that she seemed to enjoy his touch and not shrink from it. “It’s actually something Nyx said that got me thinking. He was studying inheritance and transfers of power.”

Feyre’s youngling? Lucien had barely known how to do up his own bootlaces at that age, but as improbable as it sounded, he had not known Elain to be a liar. “Already? He can’t be that much older than Lyra. He must be the same age as Boreas, because Feyre was pregnant when I - left the Night Court.”

He hated how his fingers trembled, giving away the deep sadness and revulsion that he still felt when he thought about those dark days. He couldn’t hide it from her, and didn’t want to hide anything, but he didn’t want her guilt or her pity. He knew they would have to reckon with their past, really sit down and work through it, but not just now, not when their connection was so new and fragile. He wished he could just be in this moment, and not be dragged down by old hurts, and he hoped that she wouldn’t take it for an accusation.

But then Elain’s fingers tightened, in seeming understanding, and he was able to breathe freely again.

He cleared his throat self-consciously. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that a son of Rhysand would be powerful and intelligent. He’ll be one to watch, as he grows.”

“Nyx really is a very good person,” Elain said reassuringly.

“He is now. Much can happen. We all start out innocent, as younglings.” He knew that sounded sour, unforgiving, and Elain must have thought so too, for her brows pinched downwards with displeasure. She loves this little one, she’s practically raised him. He sighed, trying to temper the bitterness in his tone. “Forgive me, Elain. It’s unfair to judge the son by his father. I should know that, as well as anyone.”

Elain smiled, but there was an edge to it. The comment had clearly bothered her, but she was trying not to show it. That figured — he was always saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, in his usual reckless fashion. But he couldn’t pretend to love her Night Court family like she did, just like he knew he couldn’t expect her to enjoy Eris’s company, or even Vassa’s. He didn’t want her to have to pretend, either. It had to be honesty between them, even when the truth was unpleasant.

“You were not raised by your real father, but I suppose no one knew that.” Her fingertips were caressing the back of his hand, reassuring him that she wasn’t truly angry.

“Not in the slightest. Helion must have used a powerful enchantment to hide his mating bond with my mother - perhaps that helped to conceal my true heritage.” He’d have to sk Helion about that sometime, though the thought of rehashing that old history, and bringing up all the hurt and deception, was distinctly unappealing. He tried to shrug it off, to focus on Elain’s fingers brushing his skin instead. “I don’t know much about Day Court magic, if such a thing is even possible. But I grew up believing I was Beron’s son, as did everyone that I encountered.”

Her eyes were staring into his again, figuring him out, seeing the truth of him. “And you were judged for it, weren’t you.”

“Yes, to an extent.” He’d never wanted to be like the rest of his family, and anyone could see it who had half a mind to look. “Not as much as my brothers — Eris, most especially. I even fell prey to that type of thinking, though Eris did nothing to correct my impressions. He was helping me in secret, not even hinting to me that he was doing it. He let me believe he was cruel and uncaring.”

Here he half-expected her to criticize Eris, but instead she only frowned, musing, “That’s just like what my family does. They put on an act, even Feyre. And I’ve always hated it.”

“Me too,” he said, hoping he sounded sympathetic. “I imagine you won’t miss that aspect of life at the Night Court?”

Elain shuddered. “Not in the slightest.”

Lucien didn’t trust himself to say more, so he only hummed noncommittally in answer. He had to appreciate her insight, even as he hated how right she was. He hadn’t wanted to be so at odds with Feyre, but he couldn’t see how things could have turned out differently. He did harbor guilt for how she’d suffered, both Under the Mountain and afterwards, but he had the distinct feeling that nothing he did, or didn’t do, would ever have been good enough for her. She’d chosen to believe Rhys’s version of events, and it would have been awkward in the extreme to have Lucien hanging around, calling bullshit.

Was it wrong of him to be pleased with how much Elain seemed to see things his way? He probably shouldn’t have wished for her to be at odds with her family, but hearing her speak this way did reassure him. He’d put up with working for Feyre because he’d thought it might win Elain over, and now it turned out it was quite the opposite.

Elain seemed as eager to move the conversation along as he was. “Did Eris corral extra magic?” she asked, quickly adding, “I won’t tell anyone else, in case that worries you.”

Eris probably should be worried, but in Lucien’s estimation, that was a good thing. He’d come to appreciate his brother much more, recently, but that didn’t change that Eris was still a schemer at heart. Having a Seer around might help keep some of his brother’s more exorbitant ambitions in check, or at least keep him honest.

He smiled down at her, luxuriating in her nearness, her simple touches, and she gave him a lovely smile in return. “I don’t think Eris would appreciate me sharing his secrets, if I knew them,” he said dryly, “but he hasn’t taken me into his confidence. I suppose that leaves me free to speculate.”

Elain raised an eyebrow, trying and failing to keep a straight face. “Why, yes, I suppose it does.”

“Well, if one were to speculate, entirely hypothetically, of course,” he said, emphasizing the words with a mischievous grin, “then one might recall that a certain queen of Prythian deceived all the High Lords into giving her control and use of their powers, with nothing more than a stolen spell-book and seven poisoned cups of wine. Eris’s job would have been even easier, for would have only had to manage one cup. If, hypothetically, that is what he intended.”

“How did Amarantha’s spell-book find its way to Autumn?” Elain wondered, then delighted him even more by adding teasingly, “Hypothetically, of course.”

“That would indeed be an interesting mystery, if such a thing were to happen,” he declared, winking at her. “I can’t help but wonder that, myself.”

“What if it was the priestesses?”

He felt like he’d been doused with frigid water, all of his mirth abruptly sputtering out. He’d been steeling himself to enter the Temple, to surround himself with acolytes and priestesses, reassuring himself that it would be different. That she was dead, and unable to hurt him or anyone else. But he couldn’t deny that it was all a little too coincidental that the rebels were meeting at the Temple. What if they’d promised the priestesses more power, if they supported Tarquin’s challenger?

He let out a shaky breath. “Tamlin’s High Priestess was working with Hybern. She was the one who —“ Bile rose up in him, coating the back of his mouth and throat with acid, and he swallowed it back down.

“— who suggested that I go into the Cauldron,” Elain said softly.

And so many other crimes. He’d wondered that Feyre had even chosen to spare her. If anyone could truly be blamed for what had happened to her sisters, surely it had been Ianthe, yet everyone else had been punished far more than she had. If Feyre hadn’t happened upon her, assaulting him in the forest, would she have injured Ianthe at all?

“She should have been killed for that treachery,” he said to Elain, each word feeling heavy and bitter on his tongue. “Yet Tamlin deemed her important to his plan to spy on Hybern. I felt I couldn’t go against him, or risk relaxing my vigilance, and so I failed to avenge you.”

It felt like a risk, reminding Elain of how badly he’d failed her, how she’d once thought he’d betrayed her. But before he could wonder whether she might revile him, or think better of her interest, she stepped forward, wrapping her soft arms around him, and pressing her cheek into his chest. He was sure his heart was thumping too wildly, drowning out even the relentless pounding of ocean waves upon shoreline, that Elain would feel exactly how desperately he desired her.

“It’s all done now. She’s gone, and we aren’t. She can't hurt either of us ever again,” she said firmly.

He embraced her in return, arms aching to lock up around her and simply never let go again. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, murmuring,“I’m sorry you had to See that.”

Elain lifted her head, meeting his gaze, and the look she gave him was sorrowful, but determined. “It wasn’t your fault, Lucien. None of it was.”

Could he believe that? Just the fact that she’d say so, that she would absolve him so absolutely, made something unclench deep inside him. He shuddered with relief, feeling the worst of his anguish melting away, and she nestled in more closely against him. “You don’t have to talk about it, if you’d rather not. I don’t even know why the visions showed — that — to me.”

That gave him pause, his churning feelings finally settling down enough for him to consider the significance. There had to be a reason that priestess had been in Elain’s vision. What other wickedness might Ianthe have been up to, before she’d been tricked into entering the Weaver’s cottage?

“Perhaps Ianthe is the key to our mystery,” he suggested, his mind rapidly turning over the possibilities. “The King had promised her that priestesses would rule, rather than High Lords. Not that he ever intended to fulfill that vow. She would have been a fool to take him at his word. It’s likely that she had schemes of her own, to hedge her bets in case the King betrayed her.”

He doubted this was at all coherent, but amazingly, Elain seemed to catch his meaning. “Could she have stolen his spell-book?”

He chuckled, darkly amused at the thought of one wicked schemer being outsmarted by another. “The King would have been a fool indeed, to let his guard down so thoroughly. He should have learned, after Amarantha. But Ianthe was nothing if not persistent, and not above using all types of persuasions. Perhaps she was able to gain the King’s confidence, enough for him to get careless around her. She wouldn't have needed the entire book — even one page would be an incalculable advantage.”

Elain was listening thoughtfully, seeming to take all of this disgusting wickedness in stride. “But wouldn’t it have been lost when she perished?”

“One would think? But perhaps not. There are priestesses at every court. It could be that Ianthe had friends, or at least allies.” And I’m about to walk into a temple possibly filled with them. He would have to be an idiot to take Elain with him. He drew her closer, as though he could physically shield her from it. Then he started to panic, thinking he was being overbearing, but Elain only curled up into him, seeming to enjoy his embrace, and he relaxed again.

The last thing he wanted to do was keep talking about Ianthe, at such a moment, but he forced himself to go onward. “Jurian recalls her from Hybern’s war camp. She would have had nowhere to hide stolen goods there. And when she wasn't hovering around the King, she was making herself a nuisance, pestering Jurian and the other generals, trying to seduce them. It wouldn’t have been wise for her to hold onto the stolen spells for them to discover as they — undressed her.”

He shuddered, cursing his stupid memory, and Elain shifted in his arms, managing to reach one of his hands, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. A jolt of pleasure rushed through him, and he shifted subtly, trying to avoid pressing that part of him against her.

“So she gave the spells to someone else?” Elain asked“Another High Priestess, perhaps?”

“Of course this is all speculation. But that would have been the wisest course of action. If I were in Ianthe’s position, I would have gifted the spells into a comrade’s hands as a failsafe, in case I ever needed rescuing.” He wondered if any of Ianthe’s fellow priestesses had ever realized exactly how debauched and amoral she truly was, if they were using her for their own advancement just as she was surely using them. That would still make them untrustworthy, and very dangerous.

“There would have been another benefit,” Elain said “She would have had someone to take the fall for her, if the theft was ever discovered.”

“Indeed.” Lucien was surprised that sweet, principled Elain could conceive of such a thing, and he was sure the surprise showed on his features. “It's entirely possible that Eris’s High Priestess was the recipient. She was not High Priestess when Beron was in power. Eris could have promised her the position, in exchange for the use of the magic.”

They didn’t know that for certain, of course, but they didn’t have any other explanation right now. Eris could deny it all he wanted, but the fact was that he had stolen power, or hoarded it somehow. Lucien couldn’t even blame Eris for it, for ridding the world of Beron Vanserra, freeing their mother and liberating Autumn. But what else might one do with all that stolen magic? And what might a High Priestess want in return?

Elain had been nodding as he was speaking, following his reasoning, but now asked, “But then how did the stolen spells end up in Summer?”

“Who knows? Ianthe could have doled out one spell to each ally, or they could be sharing amongst themselves.” Indeed, they could be doing so at this instant, even while he was stalling, indulging himself with his mate instead of completing his mission. He forced himself to move the slightest fraction away from Elain, not knowing how he was meant to part from her, when all he wanted to do was stay close. “Those spells could be falling into rebel hands, at this very moment.”

Elain squared her shoulders, declaring, “Then there’s no time to lose. We’ve got to get to the temple, and stop them. What’s our cover story?”

Oh, gods. She was being serious.

He gently took her wrists in his hands, torn about whether to pull her back towards him, or herd her into the palace and make sure she didn’t follow him. “Those bastards almost got you once. I don’t like the idea of putting you in harm’s way again. I can try to protect you, but — “ He swallowed thickly, guilt overwhelming him. “I wasn't able to do that before.”

She pressed her hands to his chest, murmuring, “We said no more guilt, remember?”

Then she was reaching up for him, sinking her fingers into his shirt fabric, and her lips were brushing his. He returned her kisses eagerly, desperately, swept away on a tide of sensation, every regret and worry slipping away, and he wanted nothing more than to be dragged under.

Finally, Elain found words to speak again. “I could be a distraction. I could tell the priestesses I am a Seer, and I have a prophecy that concerns them.”

He braced their foreheads together, letting their breaths mingle for one more moment, before forcing himself to again pull back. “That could work, if they consent to an audience.” He still hated the idea of her being involved at all, but knew better than to think he could talk her out of it.

“I don't think they’ll spurn the request, but if they do, I’m not out of options,” Elain said. “The High Lady of the Night Court is still my sister.”

“Then I’ll go in the orphanage entrance, and see to the foundlings first,” Lucien agreed, his mind rapidly spinning out into ways he could minimize the risks, “and go for the scroll once they’re to safety. Tarquin and I discussed the layout, and he’s guessed it would be in the inner sanctum.”

“Good. I’ll meet you there,” she said resolutely.

No, please don’t, he almost blurted. But he tried to be diplomatic, instead pleading, “Elain, are you absolutely certain?”

Elain’s lovely face was set with determination, a look he was coming to know well. “I’ve Seen that I end up there. I have to assume that it’s for a good reason.”

He couldn’t argue with that, so he asked instead, “Will you be able to find your way?”

She smiled enigmatically. “I don't think that will be a problem.”

He had no idea what that meant, but reasoned that he could find her quickly enough by using the bond, if it came down to it, and the thought of that made him want to weep with joy. The bond had so long been a nuisance, a reminder of all he’d never had and then lost, a source of shame and humiliation, despair and heartache, but now a lifeline and anchor.

He allowed himself one final, delicious kiss to tide them both over, before murmuring,“Then let’s get this over with quickly. There are many other things I’d rather be doing.”

Chapter Text

Lucien's heart was across the water, making him feel stretched out, seeking his anchor. All he wanted, all the bond demanded, was for him to stay by Elain, touch her, hold her, claim her.

But he was not on a lovely balcony overlooking the sea, embracing his mate in the morning sunlight, but sprawled out on a sandy seabed, clawing his way up through a tangle of seaweed. The clumsy shield-bubble he'd fashioned around his body, buffeting him in a thin blanket of air, made his swimming ungainly and inefficient, though it was much better than the one he'd managed in the lake, now that he'd had a bit of practice. But he did need to concentrate to keep it stable, and the ocean was much rougher and more demanding to maneuver in.

A silvery streak of water and bubbles erupted beside him, and then another on his other side. Lucien tensed out of instinct, then relaxed as he saw who it was. "Sorry," he mumble-shouted, unsure how well his words would echo between the dispersing effects of his air-shield and the churning of the waves.

But his two guides only grinned, their webbed fingers brushing strangely against the air-shield as they righted him. "We'll try to go slower," Tiberius said, masses of bubbles emanating from his throat as he expelled the sounds into water. "We forget you're not one of us."

Despite his worries, and the stress of this journey, Lucien grinned back at the water wraith, then turned to the other brother, who was hovering, legs gently undulating underneath him. "How close are we?"

Gracchus gestured at a darker patch up ahead. "We need to cross the reef perimeter." 

Smart. Lucien could appreciate the Temple's defenses, even as they were now stymying his progress. Tiberius and Gracchus were taking him towards the servant entrance, only accessible at the high tides, and he'd been damn lucky he hadn't ruined the timing by lingering with Elain for too long. Not that he could really regret it, not when it was literally the greatest thing that had ever happened to him. The decision to go with the water wraiths had been on the spur of the moment - he'd seen a newly healed Tiberius in the corridors outside the Dawn Court suite, and one thing had led to another -- but he didn't know how he would have found his way without them.

The two brothers both resumed swimming, and Lucien flailed and floundered awkwardly before a wave propelled him forward. His heart lurched as another current knocked him backwards, ducking down further underneath the churning of the surface, and then breathed out with chagrined relief as he regained control of his momentum. That control was only temporary, perhaps even an illusion, for he couldn't predict how the waves would knock against him, or drag him from his course entirely. It was a maddening feeling, and far too familiar.

At least Elain would not have to fight the waves, when she made her journey. She would wait for the low tide, when the wave height would dwindle to mere inches, so that she could make the traditional pilgrimage walk to the temple across the exposed sand. It was a fairly recent ritual, put in place after the Book of Breathings was removed from the temple and it had been transformed into the gleaming, imposing structure it was now, almost rivaling Tarquin's palace. 

The structure was beautiful, even majestic, but Lucien found it ominous. He didn't like the implicit rivalry between High Lord and High Priestess, set up by its looming presence. This temple made a towering statement, like the priestesses had laid claim to the ocean, though Tarquin rightly held dominion over it along with Cresseida. It was almost a challenge, a thrown down gauntlet, as though the priestesses knew Tarquin would never answer it.

Lucien would never blame Tarquin for being benevolent and trusting, loving freedom, not striking out at his subjects with overwhelming displays of dominance. It was why he liked the male so much, and how he would prefer to govern if he was ever pressed into it. But he couldn't help but notice that mercy had its limits, how unscrupulous people were quick to take advantage. Rhys would never suffer such obvious rivals, and neither would Beron. Tamlin's solution was to have no priestesses at all, which some in Spring found sacrilegious, but their faith had been severely shaken by Feyre Cauldron-Blessed, so no one dared say anything about it. Not even Kallias had allowed his priestesses to retain any power, and in Lucien's estimation Kal was pretty level headed, a good balance between stern and merciful. Maybe Tarquin could be a bit more merciless.

That was the way of the world, the unfortunate reality Lucien had been forced to accept. People wanted power, and were willing to kill for it. Not having power was dangerous, but declining to use what you had almost more so, because then people might try to take it from you. Tarquin was facing a rebellion, yet he was the most just and merciful among them. And maybe that itself was the reason.

But this was why the Consortium existed, to provide safety in numbers. They would not be divided and powerless, like Amarantha had kept them for decades. They had first formed their group to unite against the threat of the Night Court and its Trove weapons, but now they had become so much more. It was not just Summer itself that was under threat from this rebellion, but everything they'd done and built together.

Lucien tried to push those worries out of his mind, focusing on swimming after his companions, the visibility cloudy with kicked up sand and sediment. A turtle arced by, ungainly and lumpy and slow on land, but in the water it was majestic, body shaped perfectly to dive deep and out-swim predators, like the wide-mouthed, leering sharks that looked ferocious but seldom attacked swimmers. Coral reefs ringed the temple plot, brightly colored despite the dim light filtering in through the water, and fish darted in and out, dodging larger animals drawn to the ready meal. Lucien had been warned that the coral was sharp, that if it drew blood, it would summon the  more fearsome predators that liked to lie in wait, striking when the opportunity arises. Many Hybern soldiers had been purged from Summer's waters that way.

Ahead, the water churned with tiny bubbles, produced by a pod of sleek creatures that Lucien recognized as dolphins. They were rushing towards him at heart-pounding speeds, momentarily making him freeze in mid-stroke. He'd never heard of them being aggressive, but what if they thought him a trespasser or enemy?

Gracchus called to them in a clicking, high-pitched tone that Lucien could only guess was a language, but what was communicated became clear enough when the creatures changed course, streaking away from them with little jumps and whistling noises. Lucien sighed with relief, not sure what else he’d expected.

They weren’t even at the temple yet, and he was already feeling fatigued. Maintaining the shield of air around his limbs was taxing - he would probably be damp and cold once he arrived, but at least he had magic that could cure that. How little of his magic he’d been using up until now. How poorly he understood it. And how little he'd have given it thought, if Elain hadn't inspired him.

He grinned, despite his exhausted muscles and his pounding heart, his lungs that were beginning to ache from being too chronically short of air. He felt tingly and restless at being so far from her, like he ought not to have left her at all.

Soon. They would get this over with, and then he could get back to the very pleasurable business of courting her. His mind hummed with fantasies of drinks and dancing with Elain under the stars, bonfires and warm cups of cider, museums and concerts and buying her little presents. She had been wearing the pearl earrings he had bought her for a long-ago Solstice, so maybe he could find a pearl necklace to match?

How ravishing she would look in just a pearl necklace.

He quickly banished that naughty thought -- not because he was afraid she would sense it, or find it improper, but because he couldn't risk becoming aroused while swimming through a treacherous ocean.

Ahead of him, Tiberius suddenly drew up short, raising his hand in their predetermined signal. Incoming danger.

At first, Lucien saw nothing at all, but then the threat suddenly was all too real, right in front of him. There were stinging creatures in their path, bulbous and undulating, bearing the signature blue rings that indicated they were the dreaded temple guardians everyone had warned him to avoid. They were said to target those approaching the temple with impure intentions, that their poison could kill with one brush of a tentacle.

Lucien tried very hard not to panic, but he was far too distant from the shore, and the temple was still a ways ahead, without any other way to go around and avoid the problem. He had no idea if his air shield would protect him from a direct attack, and he certainly couldn't extend it to cover both of his escorts, not without risking it dissipating entirely. He felt responsible for getting them into this, even though they were more than willing once he'd explained the mission to them. He couldn't justify asking them to go any further.

But when he turned to where he thought his escorts ought to be, to suggest they go back and he find his way alone, the creatures swarmed past him in a rush, none going close enough to target him.

He froze, momentarily struck with terror. The guardians didn't see him as a threat, but he'd foolishly lost sight of Tiberius and Gracchus. What if they were the sought-after targets? What if they did have bad intentions and were about to die for it?

If they were traitors, they would die a traitor's death, and Lucien's mission could go forth unimpeded. But that thought did little to comfort Lucien in the moment. He was tired of so much death and pain.

After several heart-pounding moments of thrashing about in the water, struggling to maintain his air-shield, he finally managed to turn around to see that both of his escorts were still with him. Tiberius and Gracchus both looked genuinely relieved, like they had been uncertain of the outcome. 

Well, at least the temple guardians found them trustworthy, even if they still doubt themselves.

It gave Lucien at least a little confidence that the brothers' intentions were genuine, if they had passed this test together. He felt a little guilty for doubting them, but he'd have been stupid not to. They wouldn't have been the first, nor the last, to hide their true intentions. Lucien flattered himself that he understood people, that he could read their intentions, anticipate who was trustworthy and who wasn't, but he knew his judgment was nowhere near infallible.

The jellyfish had moved past them, headed towards destinations unknown. Perhaps they had perceived some more distant threat, and were moving to intercept it? But that  thought failed to comfort Lucien, for now he wondered if they had been followed, if the rebels were alerted to his plans already.

He treaded water, unsure of how to proceed, but what other choice was there? He had to go onwards. 

After exchanging nods with his guides, Lucien resumed his journey, wondering how the temple servants managed this daily. They were not ordained or blessed to live in the temple itself like acolytes or full priestesses. Even there, servants were meant to be invisible, just part of the scenery. Working miracles for the Mother, just as they did for everyone else.

"Here," Tiberius rumbled from deep in his chest, the word strange and distorted filtered through water. Water wraiths didn't need to breathe air while immersed, but Lucien thought he sounded almost breathless, as though the weight of this mission were pressing down on him. He was gesturing towards a simple unmarked door that Lucien could see was glimmering with a faint glamour, and then the three of them were through it, and into a long, dark, puddled hallway.

Lucien let his air shield dissipate, panting as he adjusted to breathing normal air. His lungs felt a bit squeezed from the sudden change in pressure, and he braced his hands on his knees, focusing on his breath sawing in and out until he was able to regain a regular rhythm. Then he propped one hand on a wall, infusing his body with healing magic until he felt his strength returning.

"Well, if anyone doubted you weren't from Summer, that would seal it," Gracchus joked nervously, clapping Lucien on the shoulder with damp webbed fingers.

"Give me a forest any day, I'm clearly not meant to be doused in water," Lucien agreed, careful not to cringe away from the touch despite the cold clamminess of it, understanding how a lesser faerie would interpret such a gesture. He was tempted to ignite a ball of light, but his magic was still slightly depleted from maintaining his air shield for so long, and from healing himself, and he also had to dry himself off and warm up from the journey.

Tiberius set off down the hallway, and Gracchus and Lucien followed, slipping into an uncomfortable silence, staying vigilant for any hint of combat or disturbance. Lucien’s mechanical eye zoomed out wide to allow more light in, allowing him to adjust to the dimness, aided by the faint sparkle of bioluminescence infused into the floors as they descended lower. They were delving into the heart of the temple, the sacred rooms where priestesses worked and prayed. Lucien tried not to let his revulsion get to him. Not all priestesses were like Ianthe. Even if Pythia was scheming, colluding with the enemy, she wasn't that kind of a predator. Was she?

His feelings were threatening to spiral into a full blown panic, but he focused on the bond inside him. That glorious living magical connection to Elain. He just wanted to cradle it inside himself, cling onto it with every ounce of energy he possessed. The memories all came rushing back to him, how she had held him in place on the balcony. How she’d commanded him to stay with her. How she’d kissed him. He flushed warm, remembering it vividly. She had kissed him, called him my mate.

The tightness in his muscles eased, the skin-crawling anxiety subsiding, replaced by a lovely warm glow that he wanted to bask in. He could still feel the tingling sweetness on his lips, her fingers tracing his skin, and oh, what it would be like if they had more time together? He could make her feel so good, if she chose to let him. And for the first time ever, in all the years he had loved her, he could actually imagine it. All he wanted to do was feel her, and touch her, and worship. 

But he wouldn't overstep, or rush things along. He had to give Elain the control, let her set the pace. He'd meant what he'd said about giving her time to work things out, for he knew all too well what would happen if he pushed too hard, rushed them towards things she wasn't ready for. She'd just left her home and her marriage, and he didn't want her to settle for a life with him, only to find that it wasn't what she wanted, either. He was not in this for a day, or a few years. He wanted this, wanted her, for eternity.

But he'd settle for one day, one moment, if that was all the Mother saw fit to grant him.

He was jolted from his thoughts by their arrival into a side wing of the temple, where the home for foundlings was tucked away. It looked clean and dry, and was neither too hot nor frigid. If he had been able to winnow in, which the temple's wards prevented, he would never have known they were deep underwater. There were no windows, which struck him as unfortunate - he was sure the view outside would be glorious. But this orphanage was meant to be a secret, so it only made sense, he supposed.

Lucien tried to ignore the startled and suspicious looks he was getting as he followed his guides down the corridors. They passed by acolytes and the occasional full priestess, the latter identified by their more elaborate tattoos and invoking stones on their foreheads. Lucien tried not to flinch at the sight of them, at the revulsion and panic that came unbidden to seize at his insides, but hurried along behind the wraith brothers. His mechanical eye clicked, detecting glamoured signatures that he guessed were other servants. Even here, in the Mother's own abode, they couldn't freely show their faces.

They entered a large vestibule, spare but cheerfully well-maintained, and Lucien made a quick scan of his surroundings. There were children of all ages, but many that appeared to be about Altair's age, which he guessed was not a coincidence. The War had made orphans out of many.

The children sat together in threes and fours, reading or playing with cloth dolls or other quiet games - nothing so active as the pastimes Lucien had enjoyed in the forests and streams of his youth. There were no wooden weapons, no balls being tossed about, no loud noises of any kind. It felt more like a library than a home for children. But the residents looked tolerably well, if a bit solemn and subdued, and regarded him with no particular fear or suspicion.

So they're well treated, at least. That was more than he could say for his younger self.

A little boy bumped into him, preoccupied by the half-loaf of bread in his hands, and Lucien stepped aside to let him pass, looking down at him with amusement. He had the frilled ears of a water wraith, but looked rather tall for one of their kind and had only a faint tinge of their coloring, and his fingers wrapped around his snack had no webbing.

"Half breeds," Tiberius muttered, when the boy had gone. "Unnatural."

Lucien bristled, turning towards Tiberius's glamoured outline. "These children are born innocent."

"I didn't say they were guilty of anything," Tiberius said. "I simply pity them. Their lot is unfortunate, to have to live in this mausoleum.”

"Only because society demands it."

Gracchus snorted, from somewhere behind them. "I don't find them unfortunate whatsoever. These young ones have a better life here than their full-blooded cousins get out in the marshes. At least here they are fed, cared for. They lack for nothing."

Nothing except a community that accepts them. Lucien knew exactly how painful it was to belong nowhere. To be cut off from one's home, even an abusive and violent one, was a pain he would wish upon no innocent youngling.

"The same restrictions that keep you hidden and silent are what keep that child from living in freedom, with his own family," Lucien reprimanded him gently. "You are both unfairly seen as lesser."

Gracchus made a humph of displeasure, but made no further attempt to argue.

A young female in acolyte's robes approached them, hands demurely clasped in front of her. "Well met, sir. May I ask your business here?"

Lucien inclined his head to her respectfully, relieved that there was no invoking stone to throw off his composure. "Well met. I am here to see Tyndar."

The smile froze on the acolyte's face, and although Lucien was no daemati, he could almost hear her internal struggle as she paused a beat too long. So the human is involved with something unsavory. He wondered just how many of the temple staff were complicit.

He faced the acolyte, making his tone no-nonsense. ”I know for certain he is here, and I am not leaving until I've seen him. But," he added, more gently, "if you don't wish to get involved, I can ask another to aid me."

Her eyes swept around the chamber before fixing back on Lucien. "My lord, it is not that I am unwilling, just..." Her voice lowered to a near-whisper. "I am not sure he can be trusted."

"I'm not sure, either," Lucien confessed, admiring her artless honesty, and thinking that she must be new to the position if she was so willing to share her opinions. "But nevertheless, I do have to see him. I'm here on behalf of his daughter."

"Ah." The acolyte stretched out one robed arm towards the back of the chamber. "Then it is important."

Lucien nodded, then turned back to his companions, signaling the acolyte to wait for a moment. "I won't ask you to remain here. Someone ought to return, anyway, to update the High Lord and Lady on the plan proceeding."

Underneath the glamour, Tiberius shifted uncomfortably. "You want us to go before the High Lord and Lady?"

"Well, of course. You're the ones with the relevant information," Lucien answered, before it fully struck him why the brothers were finding his request hard to fathom. "You've done him a great service, by helping me get here, and you ought to get the credit. And you ought to go in without any glamour. You’re on official Consortium business, and we don’t force our messengers into hiding. If anyone stops you, tell the guards that the Emissary commands it."

Both brothers sucked in a breath, but nodded.

"For my part, I will do whatever I can to seek justice for your kind," Lucien assured them. "The Consortium will not forget you.”

Gracchus was gaping at him, unable to form the words to answer, but Tiberius reached forward and clasped one of Lucien's shoulders. "If the Consortium can get relief for our people, then we will pledge ourselves to you in return. Whatever you ask, our people will answer."

"We need nothing from your people but this," Lucien said, "that you should devote yourselves to Tarquin and his reforms. He is a good High Lord, and a good male, and he deserves more support."

After promising that they would spread the word, both brothers departed, and Lucien turned back to the acolyte, who was watching him intently. She cleared her throat self-consciously, uncomfortable at being caught out staring. "Ready, my lord?"

"Just Lucien," he corrected her, hating the deference that people seemed to be giving him lately. Was it because his Day Court magic was more at his fingertips, making him feel more powerful to others? He wasn't sure he liked the difference.

"I am called Theoclia,” the acolyte said, "but when I am ordained, that name shall be forfeit." She smiled at him apologetically. “It’s a pity, for I rather like it.”

Lucien frowned thoughtfully, following Theoclia as she led the way. "I was not aware of this tradition. In other courts, priestesses keep their names of origin."

"So it is here. But not with foundlings," Theoclia said, leading Lucien out of the main meeting chamber and down a more private corridor. "We are reborn in the Mother's grace when we ascend to full priestess status, and we accept the names we are given."

"So, you are a foundling too?"

"Many of the acolytes are. For myself, I was born Under the Mountain," Theoclia said, her voice taking on a mournful edge. "I do not know if my father still lives. I have never been able to find him. I believe he must have perished in an attack on the city, or in the War afterwards. But my mother was dragged away with her parents, and --" She broke off, biting her lip. "She gave her heart to an ash bolt to free us."

Lucien abruptly stopped walking, his gut twisting. He'd thought the young female looked familiar, but hadn't been able to place her features until this moment. "The third trial of Feyre Cursebreaker."

Theoclia’s eyes were shining with pride and sorrow. “It was to be me, but she went in my place. I begged her not to, but --" She swiped a tear from her cheek. "When I take full rites, perhaps Pythia will grant me her name, if the Mother approves. I -- would like that."

Lucien bowed his head, silently remembering the stoic female who had accepted death gracefully, her final prayer to the Mother a last act of defiance. Had Amarantha chosen the daughter because she was close to Feyre's age? Had Theoclia been forced to witness her mother's final moments?

“Living on in her name would be worthy," he told Theoclia, thinking about his own mother's sacrifices, and what else she wouldn't have done for her children. “But perhaps she would have wanted you to live your life, be the person you should have always been.”

“I wish I knew what she’d have wanted. I wish I’d had time to know her better,” Theoclia said sadly. Then she straightened, as though seeming to recall suddenly where she was and what she ought to have been doing, and gestured to the new set of corridors and small rooms before them. “The human foundlings are housed in this area."

“Kept separate, are they.” It shouldn’t have been a surprise to Lucien, but somehow, it was.

“It’s for their protection. Unlike the fae-kind, they can sicken,” Theoclia explained. And as if to illustrate her point, a racking cough echoed through the hollow hallway. It put Lucien in mind of the village younglings and the sickness that had stolen so much of their youth and vigor, and the vervain he and Elain had collected.

Humans were brave, to be so vulnerable and frail, yet still venture out into the world and risk it all. It was far more admirable than having immense power, and occasionally deigning to use it in one’s own self-interest. To face life with no power at all, to know death and frailty and heartache lurked around every corner, took a bravery beyond reckoning.

Fae are immortal, until they aren't, he reminded himself. Our lives, too, can be snuffed out suddenly.

“How many human children call this place home?” he asked. He could feel some of their eyes upon him, knew they crouched behind the doorways and clustered in corners, watching every move he made. They were like the more suspicious folk from the village, taught from hard experience to fear and avoid all faeries.

Theoclia shrugged her thin shoulders. “Oh, two dozen or so, I should think. They are war-orphans, for the most part.”

Lucien didn't know if the number was too few, or too many. “And there was no human family that could adopt them?”

The acolyte shook her head. “Entire settlements were wiped out or scattered. We would have been placing them with complete strangers who also lost everything.”

That made sense, he supposed. The humans in Summer were all spread out, isolated from each other, suffering from trauma in poverty and sickness. Very few humans would have been in a position to take on the economic and emotional burden of extra children.

He banished those melancholy thoughts, and turned fully to his guide. “Things are going to be different now. They’re all to be brought to the palace.”

Theoclia’s eyebrows shot up. “When?”

“Immediately. An evacuation has been ordered. The High Lord and Lady did not know this orphanage existed, and they have identified an immediate threat to its safety.”

The female’s face turned pale and grave. “Threat? But — “ She peered past Lucien, then focused back on him. “This is why you seek out Tyndar. It’s rebels, isn’t it?”

Lucien gestured for her to step back into the foyer, away from all the unseen prying eyes he knew were on them. “So you do know about that.”

“We all do. Though we’ve been instructed to say nothing of it, from the highest levels of our order.” Theoclia’s slender hands twisted in the folds of her acolyte’s robes. “Please understand, I am just a mere acolyte, I don’t have the power to —“

“Never mind that,” Lucien said urgently. “No one will blame you. But if you know about the rebellion, then you’ll know these children are in danger. And the tide is already starting to wane.” He was tempted to just shatter all the wards around the temple, as he’d done in the village, so the children could be winnowed. But that would surely deplete all his magic, and alert the whole place to his presence. And then how would he ever get to the stolen spell-book? “We’ll need every sea-worthy vessel.”

Theoclia looked shocked. “Should they not wait until the tide recedes? They can walk the pilgrimage route together. Would that not be safer?”

“It might be too late by then,” Lucien hedged. Although Theoclia seemed trustworthy, it didn’t seem advisable to reveal Elain’s part of the plan. He couldn’t very well have dozens of people crossing her path, complicating her journey and drawing attention to her. “We’re going to need the servants to help us. How many of them can breathe water?”

“Almost all, but —“

“Excellent. They can carry the younger children, or anyone who’s not skilled at swimming,” Lucien said. “They’d be going with the current, not against it.”

“This is all well enough, but I cannot command them,” Theoclia protested, looking around again nervously. Several of her fellow acolytes were hovering nearby, one bouncing a sniffling babe, another with a bundle of laundered clothes in her arms. “The High Priestess runs this establishment, we just work in it. She would have to be the one to give the direct order.”

“Fine. Then we will inform her at once. Take me to her.”

Theoclia shifted on her feet, then admitted, “Pythia is performing a ritual. It’s meant to be some sort of secret, and we’re not to interrupt until it’s over.”

I’m going to do more than just interrupt them, he thought darkly, but to Theoclia he said, “I'm going to protect these children, whatever Pythia says. I’d be doing her a courtesy by enabling her to receive this message, but I’m not waiting for her permission. I have orders from the High Lord and Lady themselves.”

Theoclia bit her lip nervously. “You’ve been sent from the palace? I thought you said you’re here to see Tyndar.”

“Both are true,” Lucien said, struggling to stay patient. He could feel magic gathering around the temple, charging the air as though a lightning storm was brewing. That was bad — very bad. He was running out of time. If he didn’t get into the inner sanctum soon, Pythia would deploy the spell before he could stop her. “Forgive me, but we don’t have time to discuss it. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

Please, please trust me.

He waited, watching the young female struggle with the weight of the sudden responsibility he was thrusting on her shoulders, and then took the risk of reaching for her hand.

“These children have already lost everything,” he said quietly. “We both know what that’s like, don’t we?”

Theoclia tearfully nodded.

"They are like us,” Lucien said, his throat constricting, “and we must protect them.”

He could see it in the young female’s eyes - the moment that her resolve snapped into place. “I’ll tell the others. Maybe you should wait here, um.” Her hand waved in the air as she seemed to struggle for the right words.

Lucien took pity on her predicament then. “I know. I scare them.” Theoclia grimaced, but didn’t contradict him. “It’s all right. I get it. I’m used to skittish humans.” And skittish former humans, he didn’t add.

Theoclia straightened her shoulders. “I’ll go tell everyone. It will take a little time to prepare the children.”

He gave her the most reassuring smile he could muster. “We’ll both do what we can.”

He just hoped it would be enough.

Chapter Text

The foundlings’ hall was a jumble of sound and motion, running footsteps and confused sniffling, the occasional wail and hissed plea for silence. The children were gathering, huddling together, with the shimmers of glamoured servants all around them, grabbing shoes and cloaks and lost stuffed creatures. Lucien had stepped back, allowing them room to work, trusting them to know what best to do for their charges.

Without Elain and her ready way of comforting upset younglings, he felt a little bit out of his depth, but he kept his side of the bond carefully neutral. The last thing she needed was to sense his anxiety. She had her own part of the mission to complete, against his desires and better judgment. She had Seen herself here, at the Temple, and therefore she had concluded she had to be here. He’d had no argument for that, other than his own misgivings that his mate must not be put in danger, and a vague sense that visions could become self-fulfilling prophecies.

But far be it from Lucien to question Elain’s judgment. She had not steered them wrong thus far, and in fact her visions had probably saved them. More impressive still was Elain’s moral compass, the fact that she had not used her formidable powers to conquer or seek retribution. Her visions could have won wars, toppled empires, when wielded as a weapon, yet Elain had not become a tool of the Night Court, unlike both of her worldlier sisters.

That could change, if she’s captured by rebels. What wouldn’t they do to her, in order to get at those Seer powers? He would burn every rebel to ashes before he’d let that happen.

“You shouldn’t be here. You’re not a priestess.”

He jolted out of his furious thoughts, looking down to see a young boy angrily tugging on his shirtsleeve. He looked to be about Castor’s age. In fact, he looked remarkably like Castor and his siblings, but with slightly pointier ears, and slightly less pale skin, and his eyes were a vibrant, startling green. Still, there was no mistaking - this had to be the family’s lost sibling.

Then Lucien realized he was staring at the child, who was still scrunching his face up angrily, and he dropped to one knee so that he was at the boy’s eye level, keeping his voice low and soothing. "Hello, Pollux.”

The boy's eyes widened as his expression went from angry to alarmed. “You know my name? Are you a mind reader?”

“No, thank the Cauldron. Just a friend of your family.”

“Father didn't say anyone was coming to see us," the boy said suspiciously. “And he's the only family I have left.”

Oh, dear. Lucien tried to make his voice low and gentle. “I've actually not met your father, though I've heard all about him. No, I mean the rest of your family. Your mother and siblings.”

The boy's lower lip quivered. “You couldn't have,” he declared. “They live far away, where no one can find them.” He fixed Lucien with a suspicious glare. “'Specially not faeries.”

Lucien grimaced. The poor thing had lived apart from his family for more than half of his life, might not even remember them consciously. All Pollux had of them was a bullshit story, meant to keep him from asking questions.

“I know it might be hard to believe, but I have visited your family.” Lucien shifted, resisting the urge to reach for the child’s hand, to give him comfort. He’d won the trust of Pollux’s siblings, but it had taken time and patience before he’d achieved it. "Your mother, Leda, told me you'd be here."

Pollux looked at Lucien, half hope, half accusation. "How could you know my mother? You're a faerie.”

The child was struggling to come to grips with this turn of events, and Lucien couldn’t blame him. The feeling was all too familiar. There had been times, during Lucien’s exile, when he couldn't bear suggestions that wrongs could ever be righted, that he'd ever get to see his mother again. It had seemed cruel when people tried to get his hopes up, crueler than just coaxing him to face the loss, which had felt so inevitable and permanent.

To Pollux, he said gently, “Do you know the palace across the water?”

The boy frowned at him, but nodded.

“Well, she's there, along with everyone from your village.” Everyone who survived, he added to himself darkly.

Pollux’s frown deepened. “Humans, at the palace? I don't believe you.”

“And you’d be right to be suspicious. I am a stranger, after all. But it is true.” Lucien spread his hands out in a gesture of sincerity. “The village was attacked. They had to evacuate. But your mother is fine,” he added, seeing the boy's fearful expression. “She's there, waiting for you, with all of your brothers and your sister.”

“Sister?" the boy yelped, his little hands grabbing at Lucien roughly. “I don’t have a sister. I knew you were a liar.”

A pulse of something passed between them - an unrestrained jolt of power that shot straight through Lucien like an ash bolt, like Pollux had just kicked him right in the stomach, even though the boy hadn’t moved his legs at all. He braced his palms on the floor, gasping for breath, hastily checking that his side of the bond was locked down so that Elain wouldn’t feel it. His vision tunneled, going black at the edges.

Don’t pass out, Cauldron damn it. It was almost like he was newly emerging from the ocean, his body weak and gasping for air. He had done that, but only for moments, until he’d had a moment to stabilize himself and let his healing magic kick in.

He had healed himself, hadn’t he? Why was he struggling so much, all of a sudden?

“Pollux. Off,” a voice commanded.

Pollux blanched, abruptly letting Lucien go.

Lucien grasped at his chest, some of the pressure easing, and found that his magic was responding again, warming and soothing his aching lungs. He took in greedy gulps of air, relief and confusion flooding through him.

What in all the hells just happened?

He sent another pulse of healing magic to his lungs, sighing quietly with relief when he could breathe freely again. But his thoughts swirled rapidly, trying to make sense of the situation through his lingering pain. What was it Leda had told him? This child had been spirited out of the village because his magic had healed his brothers, and confirmed that he was half-faerie. But just now he’d done the exact opposite.

Shit. Suddenly Lucien understood exactly what sort of magic Pollux had been using.

A male, presumably the one who had spoken the order, had stepped up beside them, and Lucien’s vision finally cleared enough that he could take in the newcomer’s features. He was blond, of medium height and build, with the rounded ears of a human. That, plus his pale sunburnt skin and sharp blue eyes made him seem an older version of Altair, and Lucien could even see bits of Lyra in him. And with how he’d addressed Pollux so familiarly, that sealed it. This could only be the children’s father.

Although he and Lyra had made no official bargain, Lucien felt something release inside him. The Cauldron was letting him go, recognizing that he had fulfilled his vow. There, it’s done. I did what I promised.

But his task was not over. Far from it. Lucien was miles away from that original promise he’d given Lyra out in the forest. At the time, he had thought he would slip into the village, get Elain and Briar and go on his way, but he'd become involved with the humans now far more than he could have imagined. He had quickly come to care for those people, especially little Lyra and her long-suffering family. Just finding Tyndar felt utterly inadequate.

The man was busy scolding Pollux. “What have I told you about touching?”

"I'm sorry, Papa,” Pollux said meekly. “I didn’t mean to — I just got angry.”

“That anger could have had consequences, for both of us. You’re too old to be lashing out like that with strangers. We’ve talked about control, and discretion.” The man’s gaze flicked to Lucien, then quickly away. “Especially with their kind. Remember?”

“It's all right,” Lucien said, pushing himself to stand, ignoring the lingering wheezing in his lungs, and the way the father had said their kind so disdainfully, when Pollux was also half-faerie. “No permanent harm done.” He forced his lips into a smile as he looked at Pollux, who was regarding him with wariness. “When I first met your brother Castor, he punched me in the face. What you did isn’t too much different.”

Then he turned to Tyndar with annoyance, not bothering with any preamble or introduction. “This child needs a tutor for his magic. He’s going to kill someone with that raw power, if he doesn't learn to control it.”

Tyndar bristled. “Don’t tell me what to do with my own child, Fae.”

“What about your other children that you abandoned? Or your wife?” Lucien exploded. “Am I allowed to say anything about them?”

Tyndar opened his mouth to object, but Lucien didn't give him the chance to answer. This stupid man had put his whole family in danger by joining the rebellion, then left his wife to care for them alone, and disappeared from his children’s lives without even saying goodbye. Lucien didn't have it in him to be patient."Haven't you heard? Your village was ransacked. They were looking for your daughter. It's lucky my mate happened to be with her, or she would have been taken."

Tyndar paled. "But I thought -"

"You thought wrong. About a lot of things,” Lucien scolded him. ”They’re at the palace now, safe for the moment. But whatever is happening here, in this temple, is going to endanger all these children, your son included.”

"Papa," Pollux said plaintively, reaching for his father's hand and then self-consciously pulling back, "you didn't tell me I've got a sister."

Tyndar turned to his son. "Go, child. Give us a minute. Go keep watch for intruders.” His eyes rested briefly on Lucien then, the implication clear.

Lucien, for his part, ignored the provocation. He didn’t care that he was intruding. In fact, someone should have intervened well before now. He was going to find out who had managed to keep this place a secret from the High Lord and Lady for so long, and make them answer for it.

Pollux pouted. ”But Papa --"

"I said go." Tyndar's voice had come out harsh, but then he leaned down, bracing his hands on his knees, so that he could look his son in the eyes and speak gently. "Please, Pollux. I need you to obey now. It won’t be long, I promise.”

Pollux scowled, then gave Lucien one more suspicious look before storming away, knocking sideways into a passing priestess. She cried out in alarm, then bent over, clutching at her knee for several moments before a burst of healing magic emanated from her fingers. Then she straightened up and hurried on her way again. 

So it is as I thought, then.

Lucien turned to Tyndar accusingly. “That’s only going to get worse as he gets older. He could easily kill people, or wound them in ways that can't be mended.”

Calm down, this is a human, he doesn't fully understand.

But he hadn’t tried to understand, either. He’d merely shunted the child away, to languish in secret, without anyone who could help him understand what was going on inside his own body. Lucien wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Pollux had been housed with the human children, forbidden to express his powers whatsoever. No wonder the magic was lashing out of him in uncontrolled fashion.

The human’s jaw was set defensively. “He’s just a child. He doesn’t mean it.”

Lucien rather thought that was a lie — Pollux had meant it, though he had probably not understood the seriousness of what he was doing. “He wouldn’t be prosecuted as a criminal, under the laws of Summer,” Lucien conceded. "But you might, since you’re responsible for him. You’re fortunate that I know people who can help him, who have the same powers he does."

Tyndar looked shocked. "How do you know what powers he has? You only just met him."

"Your wife told me he healed your other sons against sickness. Healing magic is pretty common, so I couldn't be certain of the origin, based just on that. But this -- unraveling healing, causing old wounds to reassert themselves? That's definitely a Dawn Court power. And they're not very keen on their people using it, especially untrained and unsupervised younglings. It's all but banned, except for tightly controlled research that High Lord Thesan personally signs off on.”

Lucien was burning to ask more questions. The boy’s biological father would have had to be very powerful, to produce a child with such strong magic who was only part faerie. Thesan certainly wasn’t going around raping human females in Summer's woods, nor any of the Dawn faeries he knew personally, so who the hell could the father have been? Were there any Dawn faeries who were unaccounted for after the occupation and the war ended? A lesser known relative of Thesan’s predecessor, perhaps?

Lucien folded his arms protectively across his chest, thankful that unhealing magic didn’t apply to mating bonds, only physical injuries. What if he’d lost the most precious thing he'd ever possessed? The thought was too frightening to even consider. He’d die a million times before he allowed that to happen.

Tyndar shifted on his feet, seeming to sense Lucien's suspicions. He was smart, Lucien thought, and savvy in the way many humans were, quick on their feet, suspicious and pragmatic, but in way over his head. "How long have you been involved with the rebellion?"

Tyndar sighed, but thankfully didn't try to play stupid. "Since the birth of the twins.” Lucien's disapproval must have been written all over his face, for the man added defensively, "I don't have to answer to you."

Lucien shrugged. "Never said you did. But your wife may have a few words for you, not to mention your children."

Tyndar sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I know it's been tough for them. I didn’t like having to lie, you understand. But I couldn't risk the children letting something slip, either about Pollux or my own whereabouts. It would have been dangerous. And Leda --" A look of pure pain and sorrow came into his eyes. "What I did, I did for her. One day, she'll understand, when I'm able to tell her everything." His look became sharper, more defiant. "I know the impression you're under, but it's not what you think."

"Oh?" Lucien arched a brow. "And what do I think?"

"That I'm some kind of idiot, for trusting the rebels. That I believed the lies they were feeding to us." Tyndar shook his head. "I don't trust any of your kind, especially not those rebel leaders. One of them violated my wife, and they’ve all done the same to other women. At the very least, they all condone it. I had to find a way to get close to them, to figure out which one it was, so I could kill him."

"So it's vengeance you're after?"

"Justice," Tyndar said venomously.

Lucien couldn't argue with the sentiment, for that was what he wanted too. But he protested, "You should have gone to the High Lord. He would have helped you --"

"He let those assholes stay in power," Tyndar hissed. "They're all in high positions in his government. He either knows and doesn't care, or he's too stupid and oblivious to what they're doing. He doesn't even know they're plotting against him."

"He would have known, if you had told him," Lucien pointed out, trying not to sound defensive of Tarquin. "If you had gone to him, he would have listened." He saw the skepticism on Tyndar's face, and sighed at it. He didn’t know why it mattered so much what one human thought, other than that this was Lyra’s father, and his stupidity would affect all his children.

He tried to take a more conciliatory tone. ”I’ve known Tarquin a long time, worked with him closely. He is a good male, and a good ruler. Not perfect," he added hastily, seeing that the man was about to object. "He's given too much leeway to his courtiers. But if he knew they were actually criminals? Assaulting and victimizing people? He would never put up with that for a moment."

Tyndar shifted from foot to foot, as though weighing Lucien’s words, but said sullenly, "I have no real reason to trust you."

"Yes, you do," Lucien said, growing tired of this whole endeavor, of encountering yet another suspicious person he had to win over. "I'm here because your daughter sent me."

"Lyra?" The man's face lost some of its scowl, as though affection for his daughter were softening him from the inside out. But then suspicion clouded his features again. "The village was warded against all outsiders. Fae especially. Interesting that you managed to insinuate yourself so thoroughly.”

And where did those wards come from? Whose conduct made them necessary? Now was not the time to wonder.

Lucien said carefully, "The village was protected, against all but the ones invited in by its members. That would have kept me out under the usual circumstances. But Lyra was desperate. She was convinced you were still alive. When I came upon her at the village's entrance, she was setting a trap to catch a Suriel, so she could ask it how to find you."

“Lyra and her bedtime stories," Tyndar chuckled, despite himself. “I always knew that she believed them.”

"It's not just a story. There are really Suriels. I know people who've caught them," Lucien said.

"So you pretended to be one? Tricked my daughter into trusting you?"

Well, when he put it like that, it did sound untoward, even though Lucien's intentions had been good. "I needed to get into the village, and Lyra needed someone to look for her father. It was a fair trade."

"You took advantage of my daughter's innocence," Tyndar said accusingly.

Lucien folded his arms. "You're lucky it was me, and not someone with worse intentions." He tried not to feel guilty - the ruse had been necessary to get into the village, and he wanted to think that his actions afterwards were sufficient atonement.

“I don’t know what your intentions were,” Tyndar sniffed. “For all I know, you’re just like the other fae predators.”

Lucien’s mechanical eye clicked in annoyance. He didn’t bother to defend himself from that accusation, for it was so ludicrous as to be laughable. ”Lyra sleeps in your work-shed. Did you know that? She misses you, needs you so much, that she hangs on to every scrap of you. And here you are, pursuing some reckless, half-baked vengeance, and marking your whole family out for a target."

Tyndar paled. “I trusted the wards to protect them. What happened?”

“From what we can tell, some stupid people in your village invited in the wrong faeries - actual predators. You should have made the magic more specific,” Lucien said. “Whoever advised you, and provided the spell-work, either wanted the wards to have a loophole, or was unbelievably naive about the human penchant for self-sabotage.”

“You have no idea the pressure we’ve been under,” Tyndar argued. “You’ve never had to live surrounded by enemies.”

“Don’t be so sure. But I’m not saying this to condemn you. I’m here to talk you out of whatever self-destructive plan you’re about to implement,” Lucien said, hoping against reason that the man would see sense. “You have a family that needs you. Go to the temple with Pollux and the others. You’ll be safe there.”

As if on cue, Theoclia ran up to them, breathless. She faced Lucien, carefully avoiding acknowledging Tyndar. “We’re ready. The children are gathered.”

“Excellent. You’ve done well,” Lucien said, giving her the most optimistic smile he could muster. Behind her, servants were shedding their glamours, beckoning the children to divide up amongst them, and priestesses were beginning to herd them towards the exit. “The Palace will be expecting your arrival.”

As he surveyed the scene, mentally tabulating the number of children, and memorizing the faces of the adults accompanying them, his gaze landed on two Urisks, standing slightly apart from the others. They were both dressed in servants’ garb, their skin still glowing faintly as a residual effect from their glamours. The first was a youngster not much older than Alder and Orrick, the two boys who’d lived at the Spring Court manor, but taller and more fair than the average Urisk. Half Urisk, Lucien realized. It explained why he was already employed, despite that species’ very slow aging.

The female with him looked much like Alis, so much so that he almost exclaimed aloud, almost approached her. He knew Alis had been helping Elain, tending to her like she once did for Feyre, giving her advice and counsel, and he wanted to thank her. She would probably respond by biting his head off, scolding him for this or that, but he would happily take it. He’d endure endless scoldings in exchange for what she'd done for Elain. But this wasn’t Alis, on closer inspection. Perhaps a relative.

The female Urisk looked at him, bowed her head, and then whispered something in the boy's ear before scurrying away, further into the temple.

Lucien didn’t have time to wonder what they were doing, as the group began to mobilize. The half-Urisk youngling went into the crowd, taking the hands of two younger children, and then Lucien was distracted by Theoclia’s questions, as well as giving repeated assurances to the other acolytes and priestesses that they didn’t actually need Pythia’s permission to evacuate their charges. After promising them all that he’d personally intervene with the High Lord and Lady, if need be, he was finally able to step back and watch them go on their way.

Then he saw that Tyndar was still hovering near him, and Pollux had returned to stand next to his father, and that they both looked pale and frightened. He understood - hell, he felt uneasy too - but had no idea what they were waiting for. Neither of them had any water magic, nor air manipulation, yet they were making no move to go with the others.

”You have to leave. Get your son to safety," he told Tyndar.

The human looked at him guiltily. "I -- he can't. Not in his current condition.”

Lucien glanced over at Pollux, who was standing stiffly, hands clasped behind him. As though he were afraid he might touch someone by accident.

Then Lucien did understand. There was no way Pollux could evacuate, not with the state of his magic. The child might lash out and accidentally hurt the person who was trying to escort him to safety. Perhaps he could try to heal them himself, as he’d once healed Castor and Altair, but if he really couldn't control the magic, he could easily undo the healing again afterwards. He'd be a danger to everyone, even if he did get to the palace safely. What if he accidentally brushed against people in the crowd? What if his mother or siblings tried to hug him?

Once this is over, I can have Eos come to see him. She would be able to stabilize his magic, at least until they could transport him to Dawn. Lucien wondered if he could pull Nuan aside, or Vesper, and get them to intercede with Thesan, to convince him to give the whole family sanctuary - at least until Pollux was treated and cleared. Thesan would want to keep him close, ensure that word about his rogue powers didn’t spread.

When was the last time Dawn had dealt with an Unhealer? Even Amarantha hadn’t unlocked that aspect of Thesan’s powers.

Thank the Cauldron for small fucking favors.

Lucien tried to push the whole sordid mess out of his mind, for now he had to enact the other part of his mission. Both Tyndar and Pollux were watching him closely, perhaps wondering why he wasn’t leaving with the others, either. Lucien saw that there was no way around it - he’d have to bring them into his confidence, and hope like hell that they could be trusted.

“I need to get into the inner sanctum," he declared, trying to make it sound matter of fact and not like the sacrilegious offense that it normally would have been. "I need to stop the ritual they're doing."

Tyndar blinked at him, his voice low and tremulous. “You know about that, too?”

Lucien glared. “I know everything.”

That was bullshit, and they both probably knew it. But Lucien knew the man wouldn’t call his bluff. That would be tantamount to Tyndar admitting that he knew something, open him up to all manner of questions.

Lucien eyed the human carefully, wondering how much more the man knew than he was volunteering. If he and Pollux weren’t part of the mystery. Why else would the rebels seek out Tyndar’s other children? He had to be the key to it, somehow.

Then Lucien remembered the suspicions he and Elain had shared, that there was a stolen spell whose purpose was to transfer power. A new, disturbing thought occurred to him. Could they have already used the spell, to make sure it worked? Was that why Pollux had uncontrolled magic?

It made sense, in a sick sort of way. Lucien could well imagine their predicament. They would not be able to trust any faerie not to take the magic and run rampant with it. Pythia’s position was too public, the extra magic too easily noticed. And Tyndar, being human, could not wield magic, if Pythia would even trust him with it.

But with a child, who distrusted fae strangers but trusted his father, and had no other family he could turn to, and no prying eyes to discover him — yes, Lucien could see how they’d be tempted.

The thought was so repugnant that Lucien’s gut burned with anger. His already low opinion of Tyndar was only confirmed, but the High Priestess of Summer was another matter. Would Pythia really be that depraved, to test a spell-weapon on a child? Whose magic had they drained so that Pollux could have extra?

And now that Pollux had to stay behind, what did Tyndar intend to do with him?

"You want to use him as a weapon, don’t you,” Lucien spat. He could see it now, what Tyndar had planned to happen. The rebel leader would be surrounded by lackeys, able to fend off any direct attack. He would be expecting trouble from enemies or even disloyal subordinates. But a child could easily sneak in, and all Pollux had to do was touch him. He might not even know what was happening, much less how to guard against it.

Tyndar was defiant. "Pollux wants to do it."

Lucien was appalled. “He is a child."

"A child who wants to avenge his mother, and protect all humans," Tyndar retorted. "Don't you want this rebellion to end?"

"Look at him," Lucien argued, knowing that they shouldn't be doing this in front of Pollux, but the crowd of orphans and their keepers were gone now, even the echoes of them swallowed up in the corridors of the temple and the drumbeat of the waves, and the room was suddenly too quiet. "He can't even touch his own father. You've cursed him."

“He was cursed anyway,” Tyndar cried. “He’ll never be accepted by Fae-kind, not fully seen as one of you. He certainly won't be accepted by other humans. He will be despised as a half-breed. At least this way he is powerful and can defend himself.”

“He also can't get close to anyone,” Lucien pointed out, fury threatening to overwhelm him. “Think of his future.” Honestly, it was just like a human to think of this moment, and fail utterly to plan for the long term.

“At least he'll be alive —“

“He might wish he wasn’t," Lucien exploded. “He’s going to outlive his whole family, every human he knows, many times over. And if he can’t touch anyone, human or faerie, he’s going to be gods-damned miserable, if not a pariah. And that’s before the charges of murder.”

Pollux stifled a gasp.

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” Tyndar growled.

“You’ve already lost control of this situation. And it’s only going to get worse, if you don’t listen.” When the human just glared at him sullenly, Lucien felt emboldened to keep going. “Look, I can't promise his road will be easy. We both know it won't be. People might fear or resent him, or try to use him for their own purposes.” Like his own adoptive father, he didn’t add.

Tyndar had the decency to look guilty. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Leave him out of this bullshit you’re planning. And let me bring my friends from Dawn here to see him.” Tyndar was already shaking his head, and Lucien wanted to reach out and shake him. “I know them well,” he went on pleadingly. “They are accepting of differences, more so than many other courts. Thesan, their High Lord, is fair and level headed.”

“I’m just supposed to trust your word as genuine? What if they see Pollux as a threat?”

“They won’t be thrilled that the boy has unhealing powers, but they will be able to help him. They’re good people. He will be safe with them.”

Pollux stepped forward then, arms crossed carefully so that he could avoid accidentally hurting his father. “The lady said she could reverse it after."

“Pollux!” Tyndar shot Lucien a nervous look.

Lucien ignored him. “The lady, meaning the High Priestess, I presume?”

Pollux bit his lip, but nodded.

Lucien leaned down, careful to keep his distance. It was maddening not to be able to put a hand on the boy's shoulder, like he would have done with Altair or Castor. “Thank you, Pollux. It’s important I know that.” Then he stood up, addressing the father. ”I think you'd better take me to see her. Before she uses this magic with anyone else."

Tyndar looked at him warily. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to end this rebellion, once and for all.” No need to say how he would do it. He wasn’t sure he could trust the human with that information. But they did have a common enemy, didn't they?

“You think you can do that alone?” the human challenged. “You wouldn’t even get in the doorway.”

“You seem to know a great deal about it,” Lucien said pointedly.

“That I do.”

“Care to clue me in, then?”

Tyndar tapped his foot thoughtfully. “You’re not much like the other faeries.”

Lucien suppressed the urge to chuckle. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

“An observation,” Tyndar said. “You’re obviously some sort of lord or official, but you don’t come in here acting high and mighty, or ordering us about just because. And for whatever reason, my family and village chose to trust you. Even Leda, who has every reason to hate your kind.”

Lucien inclined his head. “I know. I haven’t taken that for granted.”

“But I still don’t see why you’re involved in this matter,” Tyndar went on. “Why you’re bothering with humans. You don’t look like you’re even from Summer.”

“I don’t have to be from Summer to understand that this rebellion threatens everyone,” Lucien said. “And I happen to have human friends, but even if I didn’t, it shouldn’t matter. It was a human who saved all Prythian, when fae were too selfish or cowardly to do it.”

He didn’t bring up the biggest reason of all - that his own mate was formerly human, still considered herself one of them. Something was telling him to hold back, that he couldn’t predict what Tyndar might do with that information.

“The timing is a little too convenient, for this all to be happening while the conference for human rights is going on,” he pointed out, still hoping to convince his audience. “If an accord is signed, the magic would be binding, regardless of what any leader does in the future. And there are High Lords and Ladies visiting, all that power for the taking. Perhaps the rebels are hoping to extend themselves beyond Summer’s borders.” He fixed Tyndar with a hard look. “I understand wanting to avenge your beloved. I would do the same, in your position. But if you really want justice for her, and your people, you have to think of the bigger picture.”

“Fine words,” Tyndar said begrudgingly, “but you have no idea what’s going on in the sanctum. What’s already been set in motion.” He took a step towards Lucien, who barely resisted the urge to step back. “You cannot stop what Pythia’s doing. The magic must work. Everything depends on it.”

“You’re not very much like other humans,” Lucien observed warily, “if you’re looking to magic to solve all your problems. Your human monarchs once made that mistake, and some of them lived to regret it.”

“They were fools, and trusted the wrong side,” Tyndar said dismissively.

“And you aren’t like that?”

Another step forward, and he was directly in front of Lucien. “Pythia kept my village safe for a decade. I trust her far more than I trust you.”

Lucien raised his hands placatingly. “Fair enough.” He tried to think quickly, and not panic. Elain would be arriving at the temple soon, and there was no way he was letting her face those rebels alone. “I still need to get into the sanctum, but maybe I won’t have to disrupt anything. Maybe I can help you.”

Tyndar hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe you can.”

Then he made a gesture with his fingers.

An unseen hand slammed against Lucien’s back.

Lucien gasped, clutching at his chest, as raw power seared through him, stealing the air from his lungs. He collapsed awkwardly to the ground, throwing his hands out at the last moment in a fruitless attempt to brace himself, regain his balance, before his vision went dark.

Chapter Text

Oh, unmerciful Mother, what have you let them do to me now?

Lucien groaned, shifting on the stones, trying to make sense of his mess of a body. Everything hurt, hands, legs, face, insides, but it was his back that felt the most raw, burning and slick, like every single wound was freshly laid into him. Bleeding, he had to be bleeding profusely, and his limbs shook, provoking more pain as flesh and muscle strained to the limit. He arched, panicked, trying to get rid of it, and his vision rippled and went black again, his whole body heaving with agony, no, no, can't take it, they should have just killed me instead--

No. He couldn't afford to surrender to panic. He had a mission, Cauldron damn it.

You've felt these wounds before. You've survived them.

He forced himself to go still, to stop struggling, and the world stopped endlessly pitching and spinning. Jagged breaths sawed in and out of him, warming the cold stone beneath his left cheek, rapidly growing wet with -- more blood? He tried to blink, and there was only emptiness and red, and oh gods, no, not my eye too --

A sob erupted from deep in his throat, raw and scratchy from what felt like years of screaming. And perhaps that was literally true, for it was like every single hurt he'd ever healed had been wrenched open, from the hollow ache in his left eye socket to the twenty lashes gouged into his back, the ankle he'd fractured when Killian had pushed him from a treetop, the pads of his fingertips burnt with his own reckless magic, bruises on bruises, burns and scrapes and grazes from weapons, and he'd lived through it all, he'd recovered from it --

Somewhere above him, a figure was looming, pawing at his blood-soaked body, tipping him forward or shoving him back, wrapping something scratchy around him, keeping him from sprawling out fully. He shuddered, too weak to fight, clinging to awareness by the barest tether. He had to stay focused, had to listen, not give into the darkness, not panic, definitely not panic --

"--didn't think it would be this bad," a male voice was muttering. Lucien's right arm was yanked painfully backwards, sending a lightning strike of pain rippling through his back, and he gasped sharply.

Another voice cried out, a child's voice. Pollux? What other child would still be here? Hopefully the rest had gotten away. "Stop it, you're hurting him."

The male tugging on him -- Tyndar, he guessed -- let his arm go, cursing quietly. It flopped uselessly to the stone, for Lucien had no strength to lift it. Father and son continued talking, the child sounding like he was crying, the father trying to calm and shush him, but it faded out into a whining drone as Lucien fought off a wave of dizziness.

You're useless if you can't even stay conscious.

He tried to reach for his healing magic, but it was too much - there was nowhere to start. Everything was fucking broken, every part of him struggling to function. He twisted, hissing when something sharp and prickly made contact with the raw skin.

Rope? He didn't know whether to laugh or scream, but had the strength to do neither. It was the ultimate insult, to bind a fire-wielder with rope, and yet right now, Lucien couldn't fight it. They had him, at least for the moment.

Breathe. He had to breathe. Something inside him felt wrong, like he was bleeding deep inside, who knew from what injury, there had been so many. That was where he focused the magic, on healing the old internal injuries, slowly easing his breathing a fraction. He had to go slowly, conserve his power, so he could corral it and send it places --

"-- what's done is done, and for a good reason. So stop questioning my judgment," Tyndar was scolding, his voice low and urgent, stern with warning. "We need to get moving."

"I don't want to go. I don't want to do this anymore," Pollux wailed.

"Pollux, we don't have time to discuss it --"

"You said I'd only hurt bad people."

His father sighed, and when he spoke again, he sounded weary, almost despairing. "I know. I said that, and I meant it. But this -- look, I know it's unpleasant, but --"

"Unpleasant?" Pollux squawked, and Lucien's own thoughts rather echoed the sentiment.

"Yes. Unpleasant," Tyndar repeated, his tone hardening. "And it will be worth it. This was an opportunity we couldn't pass up. And now we have to see it through, and everything will be made right, I promise --"

"No." Lucien could almost picture the little boy's face, scrunched up fiercely despite his tears, how his lower lip might quiver as he spat out, "I don't believe you. You broke one promise already, how do I know you mean it this time?"

"Pollux," the father said warningly, though his tone was tinged with hurt, even despair, "I've spent years, your entire lifetime, infiltrating this rebellion. Finding out who hurt your mother. Figuring out what they were planning, making plans of my own. I only involved you because I had to. And I am not going to give up, when success is so close, because you had to hurt one faerie."

Pollux sniffled. "He would have helped us --"

"He is helping us. This is going to look way more convincing than the old cover story." Hands yanked at Lucien again, and he closed his eyes, bracing against them. Another wave of dizziness took him, and he gritted his teeth against it, just don't faint, just stay with them. But when he was actually rolled sideways, putting pressure on his raw back, an embarrassing keening sound escaped him.

"Papa!" Pollux cried.

The hands on Lucien gentled, but kept moving. "Son, we must see this through, or this man's pain will be for nothing." The man was tugging at Lucien's wrists, using the edge of his tunic to swipe blood away, but cursing again at whatever awful sight was before him. "You really have been through it," he murmured.

A shaky, breathless laugh bubbled out of Lucien, despite everything. That was a gods-damned understatement, if he had ever heard one.

Then he gritted his teeth again as the human wove the ropes around his wrists, cinching them together, and lashing the rope around him further so that his arms were pinned to his body. He wasn’t sure what irked him more - the pain, or the humiliation. Though he should have been grateful, for rope would be far easier to get out of than shackles, the indignity of being tied up like a farmyard creature burned in his gut.

"Papa, I don't want to be faerie," Pollux blurted suddenly.

"Hush, Pollux. Speak no more of it."

Tyndar's hands were under Lucien's armpits, dragging him up to a sitting position. Lucien sucked in a sharp breath, fighting against the wooziness that rolled over him like a wave. Don't black out, don't vomit --

"I mean it," the boy was saying stubbornly. "I don't want to live through all this." Lucien imagined that Pollux was gesturing to him, to all of his injuries. I probably look as awful as I feel. He could only be thankful Elain wasn't here to see it.

Gods - Elain. Had she perceived this? What had she felt, through the bond?

He tried not to panic at the thought of it. He'd been trying to keep his end of the bond quiet, to avoid interrupting her part of the mission, but had he locked his sensations down well enough? What if his pain had become hers? The thought made every part of him ache doubly, and he grimaced, trying to stop the reaction. That would only make everything worse. The last thing he wanted was to torture her further.

Tyndar sighed, bracing a hand on Lucien's shoulder to steady him as he swayed alarmingly. "I know it looks bad. But you're seeing his injuries all at once. He probably got them over centuries."

"Then I don't want to live for centuries," Pollux cried.

"Don't be like that. Long life is a blessing. And who's to say you'll fare as poorly? You have power to protect yourself --"

"I don't want this power," Pollux declared. "Tell the lady to take it all back."

Could Pythia really do that, assuming she was the lady in question? Was it just the boy's wishful thinking, or something he had actually been promised? That was something worth Lucien's time investigating.

If I even survive this.

A jolt, a sudden lifting sensation, and Lucien groaned, feebly trying to steady himself with his bound hands and only earning a burning ache for his efforts. "Up you get," Tyndar said. "Can you walk?"

Lucien stumbled, wincing when he tried to put pressure on his fractured ankle. The words came out thickly, slurred. "Doubt it."

The man swore, quietly, Lucien guessed so that his child wouldn't hear it, as if that was the most depraved thing Pollux would be exposed to today. Then Lucien was being hauled up over the man’s shoulder, dangling awkwardly like a sack of potatoes. He nearly slipped off, for his body was slick with blood and he was unable to steady himself, and Tyndar had to hoist him up higher as they started moving, making everything burst with pain again.

Lucien clenched his jaw, suppressing the urge to kick his captor in the stomach, or to try to resist in any way. What would be the point of it, besides pissing off the human and exhausting himself, just when he needed to conserve his strength? He actually did need to get where he was being taken, and this was probably better than his original cover story.

Fucking figures.

He couldn't see where they were going, only sparkling spots in his vision. Were they bioluminescent creatures twinkling from the carpets? Or just evidence that he was about to pass out again?

Lucien let his mind drift, let everything go except his own efforts to heal. He limited himself to non-visible injuries, not ready to reveal that he wasn't quite as helpless as he'd been before. His breathing had eased, his stomach unknotted, and a strange sense of peace and calm had come over him, dampening his feelings of helplessness and rage. Where was this soothing feeling coming from? It felt like bliss, like salvation.

I hope that's what Elain feels from me. He focused on the bond, on the core of pure golden magic inside him, flowing like a shimmering river towards Elain, and he let his consciousness flow along it, carrying all of his love and hope towards her. She could have them, keep them safe, hold them for him if he didn't survive this. No matter what horrors were inflicted upon his physical body, he still had the bond - something unlooked for, but a most precious treasure, that could never be tainted or damaged.

The magic hummed, pulsing as though Elain was close -- too close for Lucien's comfort, for he wanted her far away from the danger. But he couldn't help but bask in the bond, a feeling of wholeness permeating him. He had once despaired that he would never be quite whole again, and now he was more than whole. Overflowing.

He let his eyes drift closed, let his healing magic do what it could, finding it easier now that he was no longer panicking. His healing was too gods-damned slow, and not nearly enough, but he was grateful for any bit of comfort. The bones in his ankle stopped aching, though he probably couldn't put weight on it yet. The weeping wounds on his back slowed to a trickle, the skin around his left eye becoming itchy and tight as the old ugly scars began to knit back together. He could feel the cool metal of the mechanical eye still in there, but he'd need Eos to reset the connections, or even Thesan himself, but at least he still had the damned contraption.

Beneath him, Tyndar was staggering, struggling to maintain both his forward momentum and to keep Lucien balanced. I'd forgotten how weak some human men are.

"Papa?" Pollux was hovering near them, voice edged with concern.

"I'm all right, Pollux. Just a second." Tyndar stopped so abruptly that Lucien almost slid forward. "Probably should rest before we go in there."

It was a rather odd thing to say, considering he'd been hurrying them along until now, but Lucien thought he understood the problem. Tyndar couldn't risk looking physically weak in front of the rebels.

Lucien almost felt sorry for the human then, trying to hold his own among faeries. He knew the same thing had once bothered Jurian - how his reaction times were intrinsically slower, his muscles less robust and responsive. There was no training that could correct the imbalance, even before fighters resorted to magic. It was a testament to Jurian's determination that he'd been able to fight and survive so well, even pull off feats like landing an ash arrow in the heart of the Night Court's famed spymaster. 

I was avenging you, I just didn't know it, Jurian had once quipped to him. And Lucien, gods damn his soul, had laughed at it.

Well, the Mother was punishing him now for that impudence, for his heart was the only part of him that wasn't broken.

Lucien braced himself as he was lowered down off the human's shoulder, but still wobbled and lurched when his feet made contact with the stones. He tried to take a step, testing the ankle, but his stomach lurched and he almost passed out again, collapsing awkwardly against the wall beside him.

"Pollux. Need you to heal him a little," Tyndar said. "Not all the way, mind you. We can't have him fighting back."

No, of course not, you fucking asshole.

He didn't blame the human for not trusting him, but it was hard not to let his frustration overwhelm him. He could have pointed out that they should have been on the same side, working together. But arguing the point, he sensed, would only make the human more defensive.

No, his best hope was to play along, play the victim, and wait for an opportunity to present itself. Whether that meant participating in Tyndar's plan, or thwarting it.

Whatever stopped the rebels -- and more importantly, protected Elain.

"Ankle," Lucien said, extending it for the boy to see, trying not to wince when the child's hands moved towards him. Please don’t almost-kill me again. "Broke it falling from a tree."

Through his hazy one-eyed vision, he watched Pollux press his hands to the spot, barely biting back his scream of pain when a jolt of unhealing shattered the bones, then sighing with relief as the boy's healing kicked in, undoing the damage and soothing the worst of the sharpness.

Then that strange, unaccountable feeling of comfort washed over him again, smoothing out his jagged nerves, making him feel almost blissful. He latched onto it, let it ground him.

"You lived in the forest?" Pollux asked, his eyes everywhere but on Lucien's face. Ashamed, Lucien guessed.

"Not the forest you're from. One in Autumn," Lucien said, pressing himself awkwardly against the wall to steady his breathing, not quite certain that the boy had real control of his magic, and wondering how much of his own magic he should spare in order to shield himself from it. Would the boy sense the difference? Would he tell his father, if he did?

"Is it nice, Autumn?" The boy glanced shyly up at him, then just as quickly glanced away again.

"I don't know," Lucien confessed. "It's been a long time since I've really been there." His desperate flight with Feyre, all those years ago, hardly qualified, nor did his brief foray to the Forest House to witness Eris and Beron’s final battle. He hadn't gone to properly visit after Eris had become High Lord, not for Equinox nor for Solstice, hadn’t tried to see his mother. He'd told them, and himself, that he'd been too busy, but now there was no point in trying to hide it. “Autumn holds a lot of bad memories for me. But that doesn't mean it can't be nice, too." He tried to give Pollux a smile, though his appearance was so startling that it probably looked ghoulish rather than encouraging. "How I feel about Autumn is like how a lot of humans feel about Prythian, and faeries. I'm always going to be a little bit cautious, but maybe I need to give it more of a chance."

Pollux swallowed hard, seeming to take his meaning.

A few paces away, his father was pacing, nervously watching out for guards, but now he came storming back over to them. "Enough chitchat. Can you walk, or must I drag you?"

Lucien gave his ankle a tentative tap, then risked putting his weight on it. To his immense relief, no pain shot up his leg, hobbling his movement. "Almost solid enough for tree climbing," he said, aiming another conciliatory smile at Pollux, before turning to glare at his father. "But yes, you're going to have to drag me. At least wherever the rebels might see us."

Tyndar eyed him shrewdly, then nodded like he was agreeing, though one hand reached to his waistband where Lucien guessed he'd been keeping a weapon. How can I get him to stop being skittish?

"One more thing," he said. "You've got to put me in a blindfold."

"What?" The man was staring at him, alarmed. "Is this some kind of show-off trick where you get to brag how easily you defeated the human?"

"Quite the opposite, I assure you. You captured me, now make it look like it," Lucien told him, impatience beginning to creep into his tone. "It's going to seem suspicious otherwise."

"You don't want to see what we're doing?" Pollux asked, while Tyndar got busy with a dagger, cleaving off part of the hem of his tunic, apparently finding no fault with Lucien’s logic.

"I don't need to see. Not with my eyes, anyway," Lucien said, deciding that he ought to risk giving away some information. He needed the boy, at least, to trust him, even if the father was a lost cause. "Magic is good for a lot more than combat. When you train in yours, who knows what abilities you'll discover."

“I’m not going to have any,” Pollux declared stoutly. “I’m going to give it all back, and be like my brothers.”

“There’s no way for a faerie to become human,” Lucien said. Or Elain, or one of her sisters, would have tried it. “And suppressing your powers won’t do much good, either. They’re bound to come out, one way or another, or you’ll spend all your energy avoiding them.” He thought of Elain's struggle with her Seer magic, how it had kept her life so small and circumscribed. “I know this isn’t what you would have chosen. But maybe it won't be as bad as you think.”

“How can you say that? I almost killed you,” the boy said miserably.

“That happened because you chose to do it,” Lucien chided him gently. “But power is what you make of it. Next time you’ll do things differently, won’t you?”

The boy nodded, but still looked skeptical.

Then Tyndar was in front of him, gently nudging his son aside, preparing to apply his makeshift blindfold. It was raggedly torn, and tinged with blood. My blood. Lucien winced, but made no effort to pull away.

“Bend down,” the man ordered.

Lucien did, and Tyndar maneuvered around him, tugging the dark, damp fabric into place before stepping back. “There. Now try to remove it.”

Lucien sighed at the indignity of it all, but made a show of trying and failing to lift his hands up towards his face, grimacing when the ropes pulled tight, chafing at his wrists and forearms. He didn’t point out that he could burn the blindfold right off his face, burn all these ropes with a hint of his magic. Magic that he had to carefully conserve, keep ready for whatever - or whoever - faced him inside that inner chamber.

“Ready?” Tyndar’s voice was in his ear, the man too close beside him.

Lucien nodded, the movement probably exaggerated, but without his sight, he had no frame of reference. Well, that wouldn’t do, not at all. He needed some source of information.

He let a wisp of his Day Court magic flow from him, registering the corridor and the stairs and a heavy set of doors up above them, and Pollux a few paces behind them, and far more distant, light running footsteps. Lucien wondered if they were priestesses, or acolytes, or even glamoured servants, and if they knew what was happening within the sanctum.

Then the bond pulled taut, and he had his answer.

Elain.  

His body flushed warm, even as his anxiety for his mate made his blood freeze with terror. Was it too late to get her to leave? What if the rebels took her as a hostage? What had she seen, exactly, in that vision?

Then Tyndar’s hand grasped his arm, and he was jolted into sudden motion, all of his questions falling away as he was half-guided, half-dragged towards the inner sanctum.

Chapter Text

"Just follow my lead," Tyndar said gruffly, his grip on Lucien's arm surprisingly strong for a human’s.

And what is it you’re leading me into, Lucien might have asked. But he knew he was unlikely to get much of an answer.

Apparently, the human had been planning his revenge for years, waiting for the right opportunity to strike. But would the rebels actually fall for the scheme? Hadn’t they already targeted Tyndar's village and family? Why would they bother, instead of just killing him outright?

They must already know about Pollux.

Had they gotten the details mixed up, thinking Lyra was the half-faerie child? Lucien was almost tempted to smile, thinking of his fierce little friend, with her determination and fascination with faeries, and could see how such a mistake might have happened. But shouldn’t the rebels have known better? The village humans had been exceptionally skittish about any faerie in their midst, and would certainly have never tolerated one with Pollux’s lethal powers. 

Maybe the rebels had wanted to make a trade, forcing Tyndar to save his human daughter at the expense of the boy he loved like his own son, even though he and Pollux shared no blood connection.

Either way, Lucien’s captor was playing a dangerous game, using his own child to attack the rebels. It was foolish, and deeply distasteful. Even Rhysand, in his most depraved calculations, would have let the world plunge into literal hell before endangering his own child for one moment.

But Rhys had almost unlimited power. This human didn’t.

What were a human’s options, without strength or speed or stamina, and no defensive or offensive magic? Humans would always be at a huge disadvantage. No wonder some of them would resort to such risky methods, if they felt sufficiently threatened. No matter what the conference might accomplish, they would always come back to the same core injustice, that no matter how many rights humans had on paper, their actual power and magic could never be equal, even adequate.

Lucien forced such gloomy thoughts aside, knowing he couldn’t afford to get distracted. Not as the heavy doors of the sanctum were shoved open and prickling magic danced across his skin. The room’s entrance had been thickly warded with the same sort of smothering, potent warding that had once blanketed the village and had almost barred his entry. That had been unpleasant enough, but in his current injured state, the wards felt like tiny shocks zapping at his bruised, bleeding skin. He gritted his teeth as Tyndar wrenched him forward, through the wards and into danger, hating how he was once again restrained, helpless.

Not helpless. Not this time.

Out of his left eye he could see nothing, from his right only splotches of light amidst darkness, so he closed both his eyes and let magic take over. His awareness followed the air currents as they swirled and eddied, carrying back information. He counted twenty-two people in total, a small group clustered towards the front, around some kind of dais or raised platform. More on benches set up facing that platform. Spectators, maybe even priestesses, judging by the invoking stones he could sense bundled deep in the folds of voluminous fabric they were cloaked in. Why weren’t the priestesses wearing the stones proudly? It probably meant something important, but Lucien didn’t have time to decipher it.

Especially when he considered how many people were near him, with several approaching his position with heavy strides. They seemed to occupy set positions on either side of the door where he'd entered, evenly spaced out, probably guards or soldiers. Most likely armed, definitely dangerous to a badly weakened, beaten down faerie. He would have to make sure to look and act like one.

Now let’s see how much power I’m up against.

Lucien took a deep breath, letting his awareness of the air currents go and reaching for his magic-detecting skills instead. He checked his mechanical eye first — still nonfunctional, just a bloodied piece of gears and metal behind the blindfold — but he somehow found that he didn’t need it. He could feel the magic in all directions, even without turning his head. 

Another Day Court thing, probably. He wished he’d had any time to explore his abilities, much less practice.

Just pretend it’s your eye working. Maybe he had been practicing, all these decades, without realizing it?

Lucien scanned for wards, at first sensing only the usual spells that kept ocean water from flooding the temple chambers, despite the immense depth and pressure. Then his awareness settled on the people around him, each one distinguished by their magical signature. Just behind him, Pollux was a shimmering outline, darkness wreathing one of his hands, healing light emanating from the other, while the person right next to him had no magic at all, his outline appearing dim gray and nearly translucent. That one had to be brave, stupid Tyndar. 

The people scattered throughout the room seemed to be mainly Summer High Fae, whose water magic glowed a faint blue. One person near the front glowed far more strongly than the rest - the rebel leader, if Lucien had to guess. And next to him was a female whose invoking stone emanated brightly from her forehead, and some object in her hands that set all Lucien’s senses on high alert, for it seemed a repository for strange, potent magic. Maybe she's used the spell already?

Shit. He had even less time than he'd thought, if the ritual had already gotten started.

Then something seemed to tug at him, and he directed his focus upwards. There was an area high above the main room that seemed to be shielded, a sort of balcony or upper floor that felt rather like the shields on the village, only available to those who’d been invited into it. Pythia has things to hide too, it would seem.

But the magic that called to Lucien most strongly was not the thickly warded ceiling, but his own mating bond, stretching out before him, golden and gorgeous. The sight of it both confused and comforted him, for it had never seemed so real and tangible before, but he was disturbed to think of the implications. Elain had to be very close indeed, or the bond would look more stretched out, thinner, more tentative. He could sense other presences near her, and that spiked his panic. Was she surrounded by guards? Held captive, as she’d been at Hybern? What if they planned to steal her magic?

He tried to focus, tried to sense what she was feeling. If she was hurt, if she was in danger, he’d lash out, he’d tear down this room and everyone in it, he’d drown them all, burn them, suffocate them, before he’d let them harm her—

The bond pulsed between them, vibrating with emotion, and Elain’s feelings engulfed him.

Angry.

Gentle, kind Elain was burning, her whole being seething with a righteous fury that awed and overwhelmed him. Was that on his account? Could she see him down here, or sense what Pollux’s magic had done to him?

Of course - his efforts to shield his pain from her must have faltered. He’d been too weak to protect her from this.

He couldn’t bear it. His presence in her life had always caused her pain, had always brought her distress and trouble. He’d been complicating her existence since the moment they’d first locked eyes in the Hybern throne room, and she’d been entirely right to keep her distance all these years. Caring for him, loving him, would only ever lead to heartache and danger.

Please, Elain, go, he pleaded, hoping the bond would somehow carry his message, although he knew such magic didn’t confer daemati powers. He tried anyway,  knowing that his anxiety, his desperation, would at least come through clearly. She was intelligent - she’d get the message. He needed her to be far away, to shield herself from the ugly sight of him, and worse, the pain it would cause her if he were killed or tortured.

At least she’ll survive, unlike Jesminda.

“Why have you come back, human? And what’s this bloody mess you’ve dragged in here?”

Lucien’s attention was wrenched from Elain, all of his senses on high alert as the heavy footsteps converged on his position, and Tyndar’s grip on his arm subtly tightened in warning.

“A gift for the leader,” Tyndar declared, his voice wavering slightly, as though he were tasting the bitterness of his own lie. You’ll have to do better than that, if you’re going to convince them. “Found this spy lurking about the temple.”

A few more clomping steps, then a sour whiff of ale and seawater, told Lucien the guards had come closer. Far too close for his liking. “You know full well we don’t take prisoners.” A dismissive, sinister chuckle. “We dump their worthless traitorous carcasses in the sea, for the ocean creatures to dispose of.”

“He is no ordinary prisoner,” another voice said, familiar in a vague way. One of Tarquin’s courtiers, perhaps? A council member? “He’s the mouthpiece of that damned meddling Consortium.”

“That’s trouble,” the guard said, bravado giving way to irritation. “We don’t need any more of their blasted interference.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” snapped the courtier.

“No more than it is yours. All of us are equal,” the guard insisted.

A screech of metal, like a blade being drawn, made Lucien tense, and Tyndar’s nails dug into his too-sensitive flesh.

“Peace, both of you.” The male speaking now was the one he’d noticed earlier, the one with a deep, sparkling aura, like considerable power dwelled within him. Lucien’s worry ratcheted up several notches as he realized this had to be the fabled leader, whose presence he had first encountered in the forest.

Where had the male come by that well of power? Lucien’s first instinct was to wonder if Tarquin had some long-lost heir that was making his own bid for dominance, but then he registered that many of the rebels in this very room had strangely weak powers, only dregs compared to what High Fae usually possessed.

So they haven’t just tested the spell on Pollux. He hoped, at least, the donors had consented, and not been forced or tricked into it. It was a poor way to show equality, at a minimum.

“This was not the agreement,” a female voice said. “We were only to test the spell voluntarily.”

Lucien didn’t recognize the voice, per se, but it could only be Pythia. No other female in this temple would speak with such confidence or authority. She seemed not to fear the rebels whatsoever, or the possibility of her treachery being discovered. He wished he could see her facial expression, or anything that might hint at her true loyalties, but all he could perceive was the magic from her invoking stone, which emanated a faint healing glow.

Instinctive disgust and fear rose up in him, old associations with another priestess and her false piety, but then he could feel the bond gently radiating warmth, pushing back the worst of his revulsion. Like Elain was reaching out to him, comforting him from a distance. That gave him the space to breathe, to think through the situation.