Chapter Text
Homes are hard to find.
Twice displaced, Lucien has abandoned all thought of belonging. Spring has come and gone, into winter’s long Night, but even there, he had been a passing guest. The clothes and the titles passed onto him were ill-fitting. The bond slipped into his mind, a curse. Pain follows him where he goes, parts of him sacrificed in the name of others.
For a friend, he gives up an eye.
For a would-be lover, he carves out his heart.
But for a boy who cannot see the world, and who longs for love, Lucien is willing to try again.
“How’s your arm?” He squeezes the little hand in his. “Not irritated from the journey?”
A bandage wraps around the child’s chest, securing the still healing wound of his lost arm. It’s visible under the ornate tailored jacket, black with deep blue threading to match his eyes. Lucien struggles to move past how much he looks like his father—how his unsmiling expression, though boyish, reminds him of Rhysand’s cunning. He knows that Nyx isn’t plotting anything, but he wishes—
Oh, he wishes he knew how to make him smile at least once.
Nyx shakes his head, quiet as ever. He speaks with all but his voice, and Lucien is one of the only few who understand him. It must have been lonely, navigating a world so full of others, but forced to remain on the outskirts by virtue of being different. Always a little too something. For Nyx, he is too little and too strange. Too difficult, if his father is to be believed. For Lucien, he had been too clingy and too soft, so his father had tried to beat it out of him.
Tried.
The young Illyrian flaps his wings for Lucien’s attention, and pulls on their joined hands gently. He motions to his clothes, asking to change before they leave the forest. Lucien had taken care to winnow them as close as possible, save for crossing the wall. Their clothes are pristine, but he kneels by him and dusts his shoulders off anyway.
“I think you look quite fine. Dashing, even. If anyone should freshen up, it’s me,” he says with a smile.
Exhaustion weighs on him; dark circles line his eyes, and he feels like he has aged five more centuries. His own wounds are invisible, hidden beneath layers of flesh and bone. The Day Court’s spellcleavers had told him to rest, but when has Lucien ever listened to reasonable advice? He’s more than happy to give it, but he’s spent too much time with irrationality that it’s passed onto him. He can rest once he’s made a home for this boy. One last time. He has to try one last time.
“Come, I’ll carry you so your boots don’t get muddy.”
Lucien scoops Nyx into his arms. Ever since the boy was born, he’d made a point to listen to him—his likes and his dislikes, they’re important. The others had made sure to keep Lucien at bay—they’d made sure to remind him that he was not one of them, no matter how much he tried to earn his place, if only to be around his former mate. Nyx had been his only company, a child that did not speak or look anyone in the eyes, but he listened in his own little way.
He makes sure to hold Nyx on his left hip, so that he can wrap his remaining arm around Lucien’s neck. For his age, he appears much younger. Affliction upon affliction, the goddess has not been kind to him.
You’re safe, he wants to promise, but no tension between himself and Nyx’s parents would allow him to speak ill of them. They’re… trying in their own way. Learning. Charm upon charm had been weaved into Rhysand’s ear to convince him to give Lucien time. He’ll work with Nyx and help him open up. One day, the boy will return and finish his training, but before then, he needs to want to live. Feyre had nothing to say, her stare as distant as her son’s. Lucien promised to write frequent letters.
They walk through the forests of the human lands towards the nearest village. Their destination is an easy one to find. Nyx spots it long before Lucien asks, staring curiously at the largest manor in the area. He pulls Nyx’s hood up, hiding the traitorous point of his ears, and keeps his own auburn hair untucked. A glamour shields his too-small wings from curious human eyes.
“Nervous?”
Nyx nods once, serious as ever.
The gates are open when they arrive, and the walk up to the main door is eternal. Lucien doesn’t know how she’ll react. It’s been a decade since they’ve seen each other, and their story is not a good one.
(He wonders if there’s any happiness left in this world. If he can’t find it, he’ll have to make it.)
“Do you want to knock?”
Nyx nods again, and Lucien sets him on the ground carefully. Nyx winds up his arm, knocking as hard as his little body can manage. He looks rattled by the attempt, as if the vibrations had bounced back right into him. He offers a small hiss, the feeling irritating the raw nerve of his injury. Lucien steadies him with a single hand.
Lucien breathes in, and then out, listening for the measured click of heels against marbled floors. The door swings open, and he stops breathing.
In ten years, Nesta has become more… refined. While the rest of them withered, she looks healthier. She looks good. Not that he expected anything less of her, but the way they parted was painful. Her face has narrowed, turning what was once beauty into something more striking—something more regal. The way she carries herself only adds to her magnetic presence. Even after all this time, she still wears the same reserved hairstyle. The familiarity makes him smile.
“Nesta,” he nods, and then bows. “Or perhaps, I should call you Lady Archeron.”
Nyx copies the gesture, bending at the waist. “Hello, Auntie.” His voice is barely a whisper, a polite (and shy) croak. They’d talked about how to address her during their long journey together. ‘ Nesta’ felt too familiar, but ‘ Lady Archeron ’ was too cold. Too distant. In the end, ‘ Auntie ’ felt just right. That’s what she is to him, after all.
Nesta regards Lucien like a hawk, assessing him after all this time. Her gaze is so sharp, the emissary suddenly feels self-conscious. He’s still wearing Night clothing, and they feel so, so wrong. “Nesta is fine,” is all she says, before flicking her attention to the little gentlefae before her.
She kneels.
“Hello, Nyx. It’s a pleasure to meet you again.” Nesta offers her hand to shake, but Nyx takes it and kisses the back of it, like he was taught to. “My,” Nesta laughs softly. “You’ve become a very charming youngling. Do you want to come inside?”
Nyx looks up at Lucien for permission, and Lucien nods. Of course, that’s what they’re here for. Nyx is reluctant to go anywhere new without Lucien, understandably so. The last time Nyx was left somewhere, it was a terrifying and violent place. He shouldn’t have been alone, but Cassian—
Ah, better not to think of these things here.
“Do you want to explore your new home? I’ll race you!” Nesta grins; Lucien has never seen her smile like that before. She takes Nyx’s hand, and Nyx joins her in her excitement. He’d never known she was good with children, or perhaps she’s making an effort for her nephew. Either way, she naturally entertains and encourages the boy. She matches his smaller strides, and gives him time to look around.
Lucien hangs back, letting them have their moment. The quicker Nyx acclimates to his aunt, the sooner he can leave them be. What happened all those years ago wasn’t her fault; she’d saved him, however she can, and Lucien finds that he cannot resent her for it. He loves Nyx for all that boy is, oddities and all.
He tries to leave to wait in the parlor, but Nyx always looks for him.
Nyx’s room is half the size of his room in Velaris, but it’s full of colour. The toys here are different, and the books have many pictures. Nyx is fascinated by the concept of fairy tales; his aunt Elain had mentioned them during her visits, but the selection is much bigger here. He goes straight for the books, sitting on his new bed to flip through the pages and run his fingers over the drawings.
“Thank you for bringing him,” Nesta joins Lucien at the threshold, leaning against the wall. They both look at him. “You should stay.”
“He just needs to know he’s safe. I’ll help you understand him, then I’ll be on my way.”
Nesta folds her arms, giving him a look. “You think I need help understanding him? You make it sound like he’s that different from other children.” From what she sees now, he’s not. He’s just like the other children she sees in the square, just… shy.
“Then, I’ll stay until he starts looking for you instead of me.” Though his smile is polite, a part of Lucien hopes that he’d be asked to stay. For as long as possible.
“I did this,” Nesta says suddenly. “If I hadn’t—”
“Don’t do that. It’s no one’s fault.”
“But his—”
“But he’s in a better place now.”
It’s not lost on him that Nyx has had to listen to his parent’s guilt, and carry the weight of the failures of every adult around him, including Lucien’s. He makes a point to avoid bringing up Nyx’s pain in front of him; he knows what it’s like to see pity in all those who look at him. If not for the eye, then for his homelessness. Nyx is home now. They just need to help him feel like it.
“If it really bothers you, you can make it up to him.”
“How? Is there anything he likes?”
“Well, that’s the best part. You get to discover all of that with him.”
The first nights are difficult. Nyx’s nightmares turn to terror more often than not. He doesn’t always scream, but Lucien can feel the way the shadows in the manor tremble. More often than not, Nesta is there first, having selected a room closest to hers. In her time here, she hadn’t taken a partner, nor did she have children. Lucien notices that the staff is kept sparse too, only when needed, such as mealtimes or peak hours, but no one lives here in permanence. He doesn’t know if it’s due to Nyx’s arrival, or her choice to remain private—a faerie living with humans.
Tonight, Nyx sleeps softly between them. They’d moved his bed against a wall, which Nesta currently leans against. She has a storybook in one hand, and her fingers in Nyx’s dark hair. Lucien had promised to stay on the other edge of the bed, making sure that no ghosts snatch him away.
“He’s so small for his age.”
“He makes up for it in cleverness. You should see him with puzzles.” Lucien smiles.
He catches the way she stares at Nyx’s missing arm; the way she steels herself whenever she helps him change his bandages. The wound has closed, but the area is still sensitive. Nesta cares for him dutifully.
She would have —
She is a good mother.
Guilt makes itself known in his heart; Nyx has a mother and he has no right to think otherwise.
“Have you ever seen them? The monsters he talks about?”
Lucien shakes his head. “But they’re real to him.”
The topic is heavy, and neither knows what to say. How do they even begin to rationalize or accept a child severing his own arm to feed the demons of his mind. Nyx had fought despite his blood loss not to have it reattached, kicking and screaming about the rot. Faeries had started to whisper about the High Lord’s death-touched son, and Lucien resents these full grown nobles entertaining themselves at a child’s expense. Rhysand blamed Nesta, but Nesta hadn’t killed Nyx. She brought him back.
“You gave him a chance. He’s really wonderful, once you get to know him.”
“I already know he’s wonderful,” Nesta corrects. She has never needed anyone to tell her anything, and Lucien is happy to see that hasn’t changed. “You gave him a chance by bringing him here. You gave both of us a chance.”
Lucien nods, but he doesn’t tell her that the reasons he’s here are entirely selfish. Nyx means the world to him, yes, but he’s so tired. In this place, he sees a chance to rest his head, if only for a moment.
The package finds them across the wall, mysteriously left at their doorstep. It’s wrapped up in beautiful bronze fabric with ribbons, and a note. A gift for the Prince of the Night. Thesan needn’t sign his name; the High Lord had gone out of his way to assist Lucien in his request, putting his most brilliant tinkerers on the job. He’d offered to send one down to help Lucien attach it, but Nyx loathes strangers touching him, so a set of instructions would have to do.
He knocks on Nesta’s door, and softly tells her that Nyx’s gift has arrived. Lucien waits outside Nyx’s door for Nesta who quickly puts on a dressing gown.
“Is that it?”
Lucien grins, and nods. He puts a finger to his lips and creeps into Nyx’s room. The two of them gently wake him. Nyx sits up, rubbing his eyes, one at a time. His raven hair sticks up wildly, and Nesta instinctively helps fix it.
“It’s here,” Lucien places the box on the bed.
When he’d lost his eye, Lucien had hidden behind the shield of an eyepatch. It was a terrible disguise, drawing more attention to it than he was ready for. The prosthetic eye had meant the world to him, it made him feel whole once more. Some people stare, but he takes pride in how dashing it makes him seem. He likes to think Nyx will feel the same comfort.
Nyx kicks off his covers, his face still as serious as ever as he reads the note and unties the bow. The wrapping is pushed aside, and beneath lies a metal case. Opening it reveals the greatest gift of all: Nyx’s smile. (It’s beautiful, it’s so beautiful.) A myriad of emotions crosses his young face, all of which Lucien has never seen so vividly. It clenches his heart, and makes him melt.
Nyx bounces over the case, wings flapping as he leaps into Lucien’s arms for a tight hug.
“Thank you! Thank you,” he says, the second one more muted.
“You need help putting it on?”
“No,” Nyx says with the utmost confidence and hops back over to dig inside the box for instructions.
Nesta squeezes Lucien’s shoulder appreciatively before leaning over to read the instructions with Nyx. It requires a bit of magic, but before long, both Nesta and Lucien are tilting their heads and watching a mad genius at work. Lucien had severely underestimated Nyx’s brilliance.
The last thing either of them expected was for the ten year old to lock himself in his room for days on end, taking the arm apart. Nesta herded him to and from the dinner table, but once he finished the bland human food (which he has not complained once about), he’d dash right back upstairs.
“Are you sure he’ll be fine alone?” Lucien asks, looking towards the staircase.
“You’re welcome to stay. Are you sure it’s healthy for him to be taking apart Thesan’s gift?” Nesta cocks a brow. She’s wearing a cloak with a fur-lined hood. On her arm, a simple weaved basket. Most of their food is delivered to them, and taken care of by discreet staff. When she goes to the market, it’s for her.
The house is nice, but Lucien would very much like to stretch his legs and keep her company. If Nesta says the manor is safe, then it’s safe.
“Nyx, we’re going out! Do you want anything?”
“Auntie Nes has my list.” Nyx’s voice is as serious as ever. If not for Lucien’s faerie hearing, he wouldn’t have heard a thing.
“The important thing is that he’s happy, right?”
“Right,” Nesta smiles.
Even after the war, the humans have not learned to accept the existence of faeries. The wall exists, no longer a myth, but a welcome barrier between two worlds. Faeries are treated as monsters—as great omens of danger—this far South. He doesn’t trust the humans and their fears and based on the way Nesta pulls up her cloak, neither does she.
Lucien watches as she speaks to the merchants. Her smile is kind, but her words are sharp. She bargains like a queen, focused on her goal and undeterred by any pleas made by her fellow villagers. She is a wonder, finding everything Nyx needs in a single spot for less than a copper.
“If it’s money you need, I’m more than happy to transfer you some, my Lady,” Lucien teases.
“I have money, that does not mean I intend to squander it.” To make up for her hard bargains, every winter, she makes sure to send a gift basket to the families that have extended her their kinship. Without her sisters, her father, her nephew or her mate, Nesta only has this forgettable town and its little people. She will outlive them; Lucien sympathizes with her on that very thought.
“Let me,” Lucien offers, taking the basket from her.
Nesta regards him for a moment, more than capable of carrying her own things (and Nyx’s), but she relents, handing it over to him and carrying on his way. She pauses at a small table with handcrafted jewels, a little girl sits behind it and smiles eagerly. She tells Nesta all about how she and her mother made them. Her crafts are the beaded bracelets, and her mother made the pretty necklaces.
“Let me,” Lucien repeats, grinning, and buys three bracelets along with a simple silver necklace.
“You don’t have to soften me up, Lucien. I was never going to ask you to leave. You can stay as long as you like. No need to play nice.”
“Who says I’m playing?” He pauses, waiting until they move out of earshot of the humans. “The way you left—”
“I was banished, Lucien. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”
“It never sat right with me,” he continues anyway. “I think if you had stayed, it would have helped.”
“How so? You recall what they said about me. Death-touched.”
“That’s what they said about him, too.” Lucien says softly.
They pause at the fountain, and Lucien holds up the necklace. Nesta bows her head, and he carefully places it on her without jostling her hood too much.
“Has he spoken about them with you? The ghosts?”
Nesta’s silver-blue eyes regard the emissary carefully, as if unwilling to divulge this secret. “He doesn’t see them when he’s with me.”
Lucien is very rarely incorrect in his assessments. He gives her a look because saying that he’s right would be… rude and he was not raised to be anything but a polite and noble faerie. He asks for her hand and wraps a bracelet around her slender wrist. His touch, featherlight on her skin.
“Why did you buy three?”
“I thought we could match. The blue one is for Nyx.”
“He’ll complain it’s not black.”
The two of them laugh softly. Nyx rarely wants to talk about his parents, especially his father, but he is so much like Rhysand. If not in demeanour, then in appearance, only wanting to wear the colours of the Night. They continue walking, stopping at whatever little stands interest them.
Upon their return, Nyx has not moved from his relentless focus on his new arm. Pieces are scattered around the room, and they know not to disturb his perfectly chaotic organisation.
“I have your things,” Nesta informs.
“But first, a bath. You stink,” Lucien tells his nephew.
“No, no, I’ve almost got it perfect.”
Nyx has been saying that for days now. Lucien had even offered to have Thesan send someone, but Nyx had rolled his eyes, informing Lucien that he knows how to put the arm on, he’s just making it better. Lucien has no idea what that means, but it does not excuse him from bathing.
The Autumn faerie swoops in, picking up Nyx and hauling him over his shoulder. Nyx yells, but erupts in muted giggles. Nesta steps aside, smiling at them both. Lucien glances at her and grins. Happiness is a wonderful contagion.
After Nyx’s bath, Lucien rewards him with a bracelet which the little Illyrian ties to his new arm that he will eventually start wearing.
Lucien and Nesta are given strict instructions. Sit in the parlor. Wait. The two of them keep exchanging glances, curious as to what their child has in store for them. Nyx has been hiding in his room for months, but his demeanor has been focused and happy. He accepts the thought of homeschooling from both Nesta and Lucien, but he must have his tinkering time. It is of the utmost importance.
Their knees touch, and Lucien mumbles a soft apology, which only makes Nesta knock her knee more fiercely against him in a bold tease. There’s no need for such politeness after all this time. They’ve seen each other in less, bursting into their child’s room, looking for monsters to defeat.
“Uncle, Aunt,” Nyx says formally, walking into the room.
He’s eleven now, and slowly, but surely filling out more. He’s still smaller than most faeries his age, which was why the Illyrian warriors were content in using him as a training dummy. The little ones must earn their place, High Lord’s son or not.
Nyx’s hands are tucked behind his back, but Lucien can see the peak of a black shoulder. He’s finally put the damned thing on.
“Behold!” Nyx throws his arm into the air, striking a pose with his legs spread and chin tipped up. “I have completed my modifications.”
Nesta and Lucien clap. Lucien goes as far as sticking his fingers in his mouth and whistling his excitement. This moment has been long awaited. The gift was meant to be used a year ago, but if it makes his boy happy, then so be it.
“Please, uncle. Calm yourself.”
“My apologies,” Lucien says, unable to hide his smile. Nesta elbows him.
Nyx looks at each of them, and snaps with his metal hand. Over each finger, a kernel of magic reveals themselves—a tiny star for night, a flame for autumn, a bloom for spring, a swirl of water for summer, and a snowflake for winter. There are more Courts than fingers on his hand, but Lucien understands the point. He sits on the edge of his seat, looking at Nyx in awe.
“You did this?”
Nyx nods.
For months, they’ve been trying to hone his magical ability to help make up for what he lacks in physicality. No tricks, tips or attempts have worked. Lucien is no spellweaver, but Nyx’s magic felt like… like a tangle. Everything that’s been packed into that small body was ill-fitting, and yet, Lucien can see the change. Not only in ability, but in the way Nyx interacts with the world.
He encourages Nyx as the child puts on a show for him and Nesta, showing him what the power of a real High Lord looks like. Playful, wondrous and truly magical. He watches as Nyx makes the plants inside the house dance with him, and Lucien has to excuse himself.
Compose yourself, Lucien, he reprimands, gripping the washroom sink. He can hear Nyx’s voice all over again. Calm yourself, uncle.
Lucien thought he wouldn’t live to see the day; he thought he would have left long before it happened. Nyx used to cling to him, whispering thoughts of death and quivering from ghosts he couldn’t see. Just an infant who’d grasped his handful of words, he’d managed to craft the most haunting confessions. If he wasn’t already dead, then he was going to die. To say that it was not difficult would be a lie. He knows, he knows how terrifying it must have been for Rhysand and Feyre. He feels it too, perhaps to a lesser extent.
He splashes water on his face, trying to hide the relief spilling from his eyes.
“Fuck,” he swears under his breath, and ends up folded over the running water, laughing alone.
They’re all safe, alive and happy.
Lucien returns to them once he has calmed himself, smiling at Nyx who has taken to sparring with Nesta in the living room with makeshift swords. Nyx, the serious, unsmiling and seemingly un feeling boy is having fun. He flops on a nearby couch, commentating on the display of skill before him.
The excitement tires Nyx out sooner rather than later who sprawls across their laps. Lucien’s arm is extended behind her, across the back of the couch. Nesta toys with Nyx’s hair.
“It feels like a dream,” Nesta says, looking down at the sleeping child. He doesn’t look comfortable at all.
“Unbelievable.”
She hums, shifting her attention to look at him. “Thank you for trusting me, and bringing him here.”
“You deserve to be in his life more than I do. You saved it.”
“Some would say I cursed it.”
“And they would have the misfortune of being wrong. Look at him.”
Nesta leans back, she leans against his arm. Lucien cups her cheek, caressing her gently.
Their life is imperfect; they are the oddities and the spare parts of their families. She will never be queen, and he will never be a High Lord. The nights are still difficult for Nyx, and he won’t entertain the thought of school, if only to learn how to speak to others.
“Lucien,” she whispers and he swears, he swears he hears her unspoken request.
“Lady Nesta,” he answers, a damn clever fox.
“Shall we put Nyx to bed?”
“Of course,” Lucien smiles politely, too used to rejection.
He picks Nyx up and takes him to his room, Nesta in tow. They tuck him in with a kiss from each of them. They close his door with great care.
When he turns, Nesta is standing too close, looking up at him. She smells like vanilla from her earlier attempts to bake. Unsuccessful, but another good memory slotted into the annals of his mind.
“Good night,” he says softly, part of their routine.
“Emissary Vanserra,” Nesta says calmly, touching the lapel of his blouse. “If you do not kiss me after a day like today, I will ask you to leave.”
“Of course,” he grins, and presses his lips against hers.
Home is a manor in the human lands, filled by three faeries that do not belong—neither here, nor there.
Home is a tiny madfae who tears apart every piece of machinery that ticks to understand it, then makes it better.
Home is an unlikely partner with harsh edges and a soft, soft lips.
Lucien is finally home.