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Chapter Text

Elain has felt nervous from the moment she received the summons. The solemn, near empty look on Azriel’s face betrayed that he was greatly displeased about something, though keeping his opinions to himself for now. Whenever he came to fetch her, they usually spent the walk to the River House with idle chatter. Not so now. Elain can practically taste the tension in the air.

Standing here, in the foyer of Feyre’s home, listening to her talk about Nesta, about what their eldest sister has been doing, what they’re planning to do about it… Elain realizes she was right to be concerned.

She blinks at Feyre, her eyes tracking the faces of each member of the Inner Circle spread out around the furniture in a semicircle, like a gaping jaw closing around her. She wets her lips. She wishes it was only her and Feyre here. This is… this is about their family.

“Feyre…” she starts cautiously. “I don’t think Nesta will agree to this.”

Elain remembers the House of Wind. Remembers being… locked in there after being Made. Those memories are murky and hazy, like trying to peer into the heart of a fog. It was so confusing, seeing and Seeing, never knowing what’s real and what’s not, expecting a different face in the mirror. But there are some things she remembers, more clearly than others: the yearning for sunshine, for flowers, for life.

And she remembers Nesta too, circling her like a hawk, snapping at anyone who came too close. Nesta, with a book propped in her hands, reading out loud to her when Elain hasn’t spoken for days.

Nesta has always been there for her and it is a physical ache that now when she is needed to repay the debt, Elain doesn’t even know how to start. Her sister is hurting and angry at the world, drinking and sleeping around as if that would soothe the ache, her claws vicious and bloody as she tears into her heart whenever Elain tries to get close.

Elain wants to help but this… she doesn’t think this is it.

Amren scoffs at her words and it causes Elain to bristle when she sees that feline smirk directed towards her. This is exactly why she doesn’t appreciate them intruding on this conversation.

“Of course she will.” Amren says. “It’s either the House of Wind or the human lands. Nesta may be a foolish, spiteful wreck but even she wouldn’t risk dying just to scorn us.”

Elain feels her stomach plummet. She turns a beseeching look towards Feyre. Her sister’s lips are in a thin line. "That’s quite enough Amren. We’re here to help Nesta, not antagonize her further.”

She’s going to hate this, Elain thinks. She may hate us too. But then Feyre looks toward her, her eyes are so wide and mournful. And Elain believes her. Believes that she’s being torn in two, that she’s truly doing what she thinks is best.

“She’s destroying herself, Elain.” Feyre pushes on, face screwed up in concern. “We’ve sat idly by for long enough. We need to help her.”

“She cares for you.” Cassian interjects, trying for serious and solemn, but Elain doesn’t miss the spark of excitement in his eyes. Or the hope. “If you agree with us, she’ll see sense.”

“We’ll tell her tomorrow.” Rhys declares, standing from his seat. Everyone else begins to fidget and flutter, like his movement was a dismissal. A topic closed. “Pack her things in the meantime. She should have every comfort after all.”

There’s a hint of derision in his words as he leaves, and Feyre hurries after him, no doubt to scold him for it. Every single member of the Inner Circle considers the matter settled. Elain looks towards them, moving out of their seat, mingling and talking with each other, and her, still standing in the middle of the room, forgotten. Azriel glances at her, and quickly looks away. Elain’s stomach churns. She doesn’t… she didn’t…

She never actually agreed with their plan.

She murmurs apologies and excuses and walks out of the River House in a daze. She walks a few paces but grows dizzy enough from the nerves that it forces her to sit at a nearby bench. A passerby gives her a worried look but Elain only smiles to assuage his concern. She is fine. She is always fine, isn’t she?

Her eyes rove towards the west. She can’t see it, but she knows that’s where one of the taverns Nesta likes to frequent is located. She’s been there to meet her before, but it was too loud, too much. Elain heard everyone’s frenzied heartbeats echoing in her ear like a war drum and her body locked up, and her mind started to untether to escape the noise. And when that happens…

She sees a monster without a face. A monster without a face but so many teeth smiling at her through the fathomless depths of an onyx box and it feels like her feet are teetering above the edge and one gust of wind would blow her into the maws of Death itself.

So Elain is fine. She takes meticulous care to be fine.

She doesn’t know how to help herself, much less Nesta. Feyre though… Feyre is okay. Feyre is happy, isn’t she? She has been nothing less than radiant, especially in the past couple of weeks. She should trust Feyre’s instincts. She has saved both of them many times over, saved herself too. She should trust her.

And yet her doubt, her guilt doesn’t abate. Imprisonment or death. Is that how drastic the situation has gotten? That these are the only two options left?

Elain stares at her lap. She wishes that she had someone to talk to, to air these doubts. But with a painful pang, she realizes that she can’t. Azriel, Nuala and Cerridwen are her friends and she loves them, she truly does. But her best friends are not only the loyal servants of the High Lord but his spies. If she went to them, would they offer anything but echoes? Would they talk to Rhys behind her back? She wants to say no. But can she?

The city twines around her, its liveliness weighing her down. People nearby are chatting animatedly with friends, teasing, some walk with purpose, each heavy step of their boots ringing in her ear. Elain gazes out at the throng of happy citizens winding their way around her and she feels so incredibly alone.

She isn’t, not really, not ever, and she is reminded of this truth when her misery is met with the softest touch on the mating bond, like the man… male on the other end touched it simply to know it’s still intact. That she’s alive. Elain knows Lucien doesn’t do this on purpose and she suspects he likely doesn’t even think she notices, but she hates that she cannot stop sending her more intense emotions down their bond. It feels uncomfortable and frankly embarrassing, like stripping herself naked in front of a stranger.

But, she thinks, struck with sudden inspiration, she does, after all, have someone she can discuss this with. Lucien was Feyre’s friend first, but that friendship has only grown more strained as time went on. He has no oaths of loyalty to the Inner Circle. From what little she has seen, or heard of him, he never had any trouble questioning their choices in the past. He is hers really, more than he is theirs now.

If there’s anyone she could talk to about Nesta and expect an honest and unbiased answer it would be him. But he isn’t in Velaris, not right now. She can always tell when he is in the city, that bond of theirs growing stronger as the distance chips away. It’s faint now, faint enough that she assumes he is in the human lands.

Elain bites her lip. Whether she wants to talk to him is one thing. But would he come? If she called him now, knocking on a door she has left firmly shut for so long, would he even let her in?

But even as the doubt creeps in, she sees Nesta in her mind’s eye, trembling, but shielding her with her own body when Tamlin came for Feyre, Nesta fighting Hybern’s forces as they drag them from their bed, Nesta sitting by her side, silent as a sentinel when they were confined to the House.

For Nesta, she would try.

After so long ignoring the bond, Elain isn’t sure how to go about using it. She steels herself, inhaling and exhaling deeply. She is a Seer after all, one blessed with an imagination strong enough to survive the harshest winters and believe there would be better times ahead. So she imagines it, the thread that ties her rib to Lucien’s, shimmering and golden. She imagines running her fingers over the string, and it feels like warm sunlight caressing her skin. Elain takes a deep breath and plucks the thread like it’s a string on an instrument. Again and again, she plucks it, the reverberation echoing in her skull.

She doesn’t know if she can communicate through the bond like Feyre and Rhys can. She tries anyway.

I’d like to talk, she thinks. If nothing else, Lucien will surely feel her rippling anxiety and yearning. Whether it will be enough… She has no choice but to hope.

When that tentative knock comes at her door, Elain knows precisely who it is. The bond has been thrumming under her skin for a while now.

Elain stands primly from her seat, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt. She reminds herself that Lucien has been nothing but considerate so far and she isn’t technically doing anything wrong by asking for a second opinion, even if a little voice in her head insists that Feyre’s friends might disagree.

She opens the door and sure enough, she finds herself face to face with Lucien Vanserra. She can’t help the way her eyes flick across his form. He looks good, no, he looks beautiful, but then again, she always thinks so and that’s precisely the problem. He is a little disheveled though, wearing plain travel clothes. Elain notes the flecks of dirt and tear on them. Has he been on his way somewhere else and decided to come here either way?

“Elain.” Lucien says in greeting, tone polite, perhaps a little overpolite, when a good stretch of silence has passed. Elain’s cheeks heat in embarrassment and she resolutely tries not to consider that she has been caught staring.

“Lucien. Please come in.”

She opens the door wide for him to enter, and he does, cataloguing her home in the process. He knows her address, yes, had been in Velaris when she and Feyre went apartment hunting, but he had never been inside. Not in her home at least. Though, there is hardly anything noteworthy to see, not on this level.

It’s rather small. She has not needed much space, not when rather a lot of her time is spent at the River House anyway. But she was insistent in having her own place in any case, a place where she could be well and truly alone if she chose it.

Lucien’s eyes go towards the large painting adorning the left wall, and Elain smiles in spite of herself. That was her concession to Feyre in a way, to make up for moving out. She asked her to paint her walls, like she did their drawers a long, long time ago. Flickering stars upon a night sky mix with blooming flowers and flames in a way that is perhaps a bit grotesque to any outsider. But to Elain, it’s a constant reminder of her sisters, of everything they endured and survived together.

That painting is likely the only thing of sentimental value within Lucien’s view. There is nothing else down here but a plush sofa, coat hangers, the kitchen and the dining room. There is, however, a winding staircase that leads up to the true heart of this house. The true heart of her, hidden away from visitors.

On that cramped upper floor is the bathroom, as well as Elain’s bedroom. That’s where she keeps all her clothes, the several knick-knacks she purchased at the markets of Velaris. There are books along a shelf, romances that Nesta has recommended, back when Elain had tried to bond over something, anything to reach out to her sister, gardening manuals for plants that are unique to Prythian and a cookbook given to her by Cerridwen. A desk with a cactus in its pot that Elain adores, and a notebook which Elain detests, because that’s where she keeps notes of her dreams, and her visions, for sometimes she isn’t sure she can distinguish the two.

There are also several plush animals littered about the space, a veritable army on her bed.

After so long sleeping in the same bed as her sisters, it was strange to be alone. When she had mentioned this to their father he had laughed, the joyous laugh of those newly fortunate again and by the next day, he has purchased her a rather large and impossibly soft plush of a fox. That one has been ruined, burnt to cinders by Hybern’s forces, along with the rest of their estate. But when she spotted a vendor for toys at the market selling something much like her lost plush, Elain couldn’t help herself. She sleeps better when she can pretend she isn’t alone.

But Lucien, even with that magical eye of his, cannot see any of that. All he sees is the near barren, dispassionate living room of the lower level.

Elain gestures towards the dining table, where a kettle waits, inviting him to sit.

“Tea?” she offers, which he accepts graciously, sinking into the chair in front of her without question.

Elain has debated baking, both to ease stress and to have something better to offer a guest in her home. Yet, as soon as she moved to gather ingredients she recalled Feyre’s stilted warning at the last Solstice about offering Lucien food. She does not know whether that is a mere formality in accepting the bond, or whether it is an actual magical component; at that time, she had been too upset by the idea to entertain it long enough to ask.

Now she simply feels like a bad host.

Elain takes a small sip from her tea and watches Lucien do the same. Then she lowers the cup and says, in what she hopes is a passable imitation of her former ease and confidence: “How have you been, Lucien?”

“Quite well, all things considered. There have been… incursions recently of monsters into the human lands, but nothing that we can’t handle. The peace between humans and Prythian is tenuous at the moment, but we are doing our best to preserve it.”

“You mean you and your Band of Exiles?” Elain says, trying the name on her tongue. She recalls Feyre’s amusement over it, and takes care not to sound mocking. She only… She pays attention. She wants him to know she has.

Lucien inclines his head, and there is the briefest hint of a smile on his face. Whether it is due to Elain’s attempt to reach out or the memory of his friends she cannot tell.

“Yes. But while I do appreciate you taking an interest in my work, I assume you did not call on me to get a report.”

“No. No, I did not.” Elain admits, then straightens her back, trying to pretend she is a lady holding court. Once, not long ago, it would have come easier. “I am grateful, truly grateful that you have decided to come. I’m sorry if I have worried you with my urgency. The truth is, I find myself in need of… advice.”

Now Lucien looks a little surprised.

“Advice? About what?” the from me? isn’t said but Elain can hear it plain all the same.

So she tells him. Lucien, trained courtier he is, listens to all of it with a mask of polite indifference. Only once does his mask nearly slip, but that’s telling all the same. Enough that when he says a drawn out “I see.” and falls silent again, Elain suspects that he is trying very hard to figure out a way to give her an answer that would placate her without grievously insulting her family.

“Please Lucien.” she tells him, firmly. “I have asked you, because you’re the only one I trust to give me your honest opinion. If you have something to say, say it.”

Lucien nods his head in acquiescence though still looks troubled.

“Feyre has no doubt told you what happened in the Spring Court. After Under the Mountain.” he begins, overly cautious. Elain nods in assent, so he continues. “Tamlin and I… we didn’t know how to help her. We failed your sister in so many ways, but I think… I think we lost her forever when Tamlin locked her in that manor.”

Lucien’s metallic eye whirrs, and he stares ahead, lost in thought. But where Elain loses herself in the future, Lucien clearly is getting lost in the past. And whatever it is he sees, troubles him.

“To think Feyre of all people would consider this a solution,” he continues after a while “is bewildering to say the least.”

A knot loosens in Elain’s stomach, glad that she isn’t losing her mind. That someone else agrees that surely, surely this plan is doomed to fail.

“Thank you.” she says, air whooshing out of her lungs. “Everyone was so adamant that it was the only way that I just didn’t know who to talk to about it.”

“Ever and always at your service.” Lucien replies, and though he smiles, in a teasing sort of way to lift her spirits, Elain can see that this news does weigh on him still. “Feyre’s stubbornness is legendary, but she loves the both of you. Surely, she could see reason.”

Elain thinks about that meeting. Thinks about being dismissed without being heard. Thinks about how Rhys has spoken with Nesta’s landlord before speaking to Nesta herself. They’ve decided on this course of action already; she was only informed as a courtesy and she isn’t a fool to believe otherwise.

She cannot change Feyre’s mind. But, she realizes, maybe she doesn’t necessarily have to.

“Lucien. You’ve said you’re still living in the human lands. Do you think we could stay with you? Not permanently,” she hastens to clarify “just until we figure out our next move. Then we’ll get out of your hair, I promise. That is, if Nesta agrees too.”

While Lucien could mask his reactions well to her tale this does render him speechless for a moment. And then he laughs under his breath.

“I see your ploy, my lady. If you cannot fight Feyre’s iron will, then you simply must go around it.” his eyes shine with amusement, and perhaps approval. “I suppose I can ask them. I doubt Vassa would have any objection. Jurian… Jurian is a grumpy bastard either way. Yes, Elain, I think you are onto something.”

Elain feels her own lips twitch in a smile, something of her old light and mischief warming her from the inside. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, both satisfied with their scheme. And Elain thinks that maybe… this isn’t so bad.

It is quite clear that Lucien is just as careful and at a loss around her as she is around him. She knows that his caution is well-earned, for she had in the past bristled at any and all of his kindness, because it made her think about their bond. Made her feel awful, like each small glance, each word spoken in friendship, each gift was a bribe to make her accept him.

Feyre doesn’t talk much about her time in Spring, but she did occasionally try to tell her of Lucien on account of the bond, so Elain has heard enough to know that he used to smile more, to laugh more. She doesn’t know if it’s the war, or if it’s her that makes the male Feyre got to know disappear into mist. Still, the thought makes something in her prickle with compassion, and Elain asks, before she can reconsider: “And how are you Lucien? Not the courts. You.”

Lucien’s mouth parts for a moment. When he answers, there is a new sort of warmth in his expression.

“Some days are better. Some days are worse. Yesterday, I was nearly attacked by a particularly ferocious grandmother with a pitchfork. Today, I am having tea with Elain Archeron. Life does like to keep me on my toes.”

“What could you have possibly done to deserve the ire of a sweet old lady?” Elain asks, surprised at herself for her own honest amusement.

“Well, I’d like to think it was the crazed glint in Jurian’s eyes that made her confuse us with the monsters we came to hunt. Sadly, it was far more likely caused by my own ghastly appearance.”

His wry words are accompanied by his hand gesturing to the jagged scars along his face. Elain tuts him.

“You’re not ghastly.” she says. “And I’m sure you know this full well too.”

“Perhaps, but yours is the opinion I value the most.” Lucien says, the teasing words slipping by his lips before he can stop them, and then winces ever so slightly when they register. He used to flirt freely, Feyre had warned her, and yet he can hardly go paying her any compliment now. Another reminder that things between them are… frail. He doesn’t look away from her, but she can tell it’s a near thing. “And you? How have you been?”

Elain almost says she’s fine. She is, after all, always fine. But somehow that does not feel quite right, not now.

“Some days are better. Some days are worse.” she echoes. “Today has been… today has been difficult, and will likely get more difficult once I try to talk to Nesta. I am holding out hope for tomorrow, though.”

Lucien raises his cup, full of by now likely lukewarm tea, to her. Once she clinks her glass against his, he toasts:

“To a better tomorrow then.”

Chapter Text

The air is stale and smells wretchedly putrid. But that, Nesta reflects, has less to do with the tavern, and far more with the Fae who decided to sit down next to her at the bar, crowding into her personal space.

His breath reeks of alcohol and is uncomfortably hot on her cheeks.

“Pretty female like you shouldn’t be paying for her drinks.” he leers at her with a smile that shows his teeth. Nesta bristles at being referred to as female, but she supposes she will have to get used to it eventually. She lets none of her disgust show on her face, as the male does indeed prove some value by hailing the barkeep to pay for her beverage.

Even in the sweaty, humid tavern, Nesta is beginning to feel an unnatural chill, one that comes from within rather than without. So she gives her newfound company a cursory once-over in the low lamplight. Long, raven-black hair tied in a ponytail, cheekbones that could cut if she wasn’t careful. He could look menacing, regal, but with the way drinks have dulled his gray eyes, he mostly looks a fool.

Still, depending on how her night is going, she may let him take her to bed. Anything to dull this building roar under her skin.

“Mmm. And how do you suppose I should show you my gratitude?” she asks, circling the rim of her glass with a finger.

The male leans closer, no doubt to offer lewd but unimaginative suggestions, when Nesta pulls back suddenly. Her eyes go to the entrance of the tavern where, draped in a pink and white floral patterned dress and standing out like a sore thumb, stands none other than her sister, Elain, scanning the crowd.

Elain who has made her distaste for the taverns she frequents crystal clear. And in spite of that, her eyes brighten a fraction when she finds Nesta and makes a beeline straight to her. Nesta gives a cold, haughty look to her former conversation partner.

“Move.” she declares, tone brooking no argument. The male squawks in offense, but upon a closer look at Nesta’s face, he swallows the insults on the tip of his tongue and scrambles away.

Less of a fool than he appears then.

As soon as he leaves, his seat is filled with Elain.

“What brings you here, sister?” Nesta asks, wasting no time to get to the point. “I thought my usual haunts were not to your tastes.”

Elain scrunches up her nose in displeasure, and her eyes glide over the establishment and its rowdy patrons. It lingers on the faeries bent over a game of cards, locked in an argument that may or may not escalate, depending on how much wine is left in that bottle.

“They’re not.” her sister replies, attention snapping back to Nesta. “But I needed to talk to you.”

There’s something in Elain’s tone that sets Nesta on edge. She has a feeling that her already subpar evening is going to get progressively worse. She also has a feeling that whatever this is, Feyre is going to be involved.

She plasters on a wry, sarcastic smile, but tries to keep the bite out of her tone as much as she possibly can. For now. “By all means then, go ahead.”

“You have to promise not to get angry, Nesta.” Elain begins, then halts. Reconsiders. “Or rather. You will get angry, but you have to promise you will hear me out first. Please.”

“And why the hell would I do that?”

“Because this will get worse before it gets better and I need you to know all of it.”

Nesta lifts her glass and takes a long swig, and gestures for Elain to speak with her free hand. She will not make promises she is unlikely to keep, but she will make an attempt. This seems a good enough compromise for her sister, because she starts talking.

“Feyre and the others want to organize an… intervention. For you.” Elain begins, eying her warily, no doubt watching for signs that her words are about to cause Nesta to storm off “They will present you with two choices. Move into the House of Wind, train with Cassian and work in the library, or… be banished to the human lands.”

The glass cracks in her hands. The nerve of them. The nerve of them to try and force an ultimatum upon her. Oh she well recalls being confined to the House of Wind, recalls the steep drop, the endless stairs. “Moving in” is too generous a term for that inescapable hellhole. And she has to choose between that and the human lands where they would treat her with no shortage of hostility for her High Fae nature. The human lands where she has no home, no connections, nothing. Cooperate or die. How charming.

“Is that so?” she asks, her voice low and dangerous. Elain’s attention flickers to the hairline fissures in the glass, but she carries on, deceptively hopeful.

“Yes. But see, I talked to Lucien and he’ll discuss the matter with the rest of the Band of Exiles. They could take us in for a while. Until we can figure out our next steps. If you want to.”

“If I want to?” Nesta hisses through her teeth, fury overcoming her like a tidal wave. “No. I do not want to, Elain. I refuse to play along with this, this farce! They can’t make me do anything. This is my life and they should stay the hell out of it!”

Elain falls silent for a moment, and Nesta thinks she’s offended her now, well and truly, but then her sister says, in a quiet, mournful voice: “Nesta. You can’t stay. They’re already arranging to have your home torn down.”

Nesta feels like she’s been sucker-punched in the gut. Her rage leaves her in an instant, as despair crawls up her throat. They can’t do that, can’t take away her choices, her life. But they already have. She’s losing the battle before they even declared war.

Elain gently pries the half-broken glass from her slackened grip before she could cut herself.

“I just… it felt wrong. The choices you had… they weren’t real choices.” she confesses. “The human lands are dangerous for us now. So I… I just wanted to make it fairer. I wanted you to have a say in your fate.”

Nesta stares at the guilt and sorrow in Elain’s expression and she wants to snap, to yell, to fight against this, but she feels too empty for all of it. They’re having her home demolished just for being hers.

“They can’t do this.” she forces the words out. “How dare they…”

But she can’t continue. Of course they dare. There’s nothing more ferocious as that pack when they think they’re doing the right thing. Nothing quite as self-righteously stubborn either.

“We can pack and go now, Nesta.” Elain reassures her. “Leave them a, a letter and move in the manor. We can figure out the rest later.”

But Nesta straightens her spine, her resolve fighting through her stunned despair. A smile makes its way to her face, not a kind smile, but one that is slightly feral, cruel and says, every word, sharp as a blade:

“No. I want to hear them say it. I want to go to this so-called intervention. Then, then we can go and leave this shithole behind.”

She flags the barkeep for another drink. Something about her mood must show, because he scurries away with the broken glass without any comment. Nesta smiles again.

Good.

Nesta expected that feigning outrage would be more challenging after fuming through the entire night. But no. She should have known Feyre’s little Inner Circle acting like the sanctimonious pricks they are would be enough to fan the flames of her anger anew.

She didn’t have to play at wanting to rip them to shreds for their audacity. She just had to tell herself to be patient.

Elain was already at the so-called Band of Exiles’ manor, an estate that once belonged to the Nolans. They had picked out which of Nesta’s things to pack away, and which she would leave behind. Elain couldn’t fathom why, when she already owned so little, Nesta was willing to discard so many of her things. But she had insisted they don’t give the game away. No, she’d rather lose a few of her possessions to the House of Wind, than the chance to laugh in the face of the Inner Circle.

As she sits there, arguing with their proposal, she wonders just how far she could take it. How far she could pry until her sister at least realized how much she sounds like a certain High Lord she loathes oh so very much.

“You spent five hundred gold marks last night!” Feyre explodes, shooting to her feet to pace in front of the hearth. “Do you know how much money that is? Do you know how embarrassed I was when we got the bill this morning and my friends – my family – had to hear all about it? And to hear not just the amount of the bill, but what you spent it on – ”

“Oh, so it’s about you saving face – ”

“It is about how it reflects upon me, upon Rhys, and upon my court when my damned sister spends our money on wine and gambling and does nothing to contribute to this city! If my sister cannot be controlled, then why should we have the right to rule over anyone else?”

Nesta’s lip curls. And there it is. There it finally is. The heart of it all. She wanted to hear them out. Hear them justify it all. And now she has. Nesta stands up too and stares her sister down.

“I am not a thing to be controlled by you.” she says icily. “Not now, and not ever. You asked me to choose. I choose the human lands.”

And then, without looking back, she marches out of the house. Feyre sputters for a moment, then calls after her like she’s a misbehaving child and that alerts the rest of her merry pack out in the hall. Nesta doesn’t give a shit, to be honest.

“Nes!” Cassian shouts, the fastest to bolt down after her out into the street. “Where the hell are you going?”

Nesta doesn’t deign to reply to him, so the Illyrian grabs her arm, which does earn him a reaction in the form of a truly glacial glare. Behind him, she sees Feyre and Rhys stand at the gates of the River House. Feyre looks worried and miserable, while Rhys only looks quietly incensed.

Nesta turns her attention back to Cassian. “You all told me to choose and I have. Now let me go.”

“No!” Cassian retorts, clearly starting to lose his temper. “This is bullshit Nesta! You’re – ”

But whatever he wanted to say dies on his tongue as he notices the same thing that Nesta does, that Feyre and Rhys do a beat later. Lucien Vanserra striding towards them with purpose. Nesta’s smile turns sharper.

“You wanted to lock me up because I was embarrassing you all so much.” she drawls sweetly, loud enough to be overheard. Cassian’s grip falters, as if realizing for the first time that they’re on the street, in broad daylight, and people are indeed milling about “So let me go Cassian. You’re causing a scene.”

Cassian releases her with a frustrated growl, and steps backwards. A beat later, Lucien joins her, offering her his arm sparing only a single glance to their surprised audience. “Are you ready?”

Nesta takes the offered arm. “Yes. Let’s get out of here.”

“Lucien.” cold menace radiates from Rhys as he takes a step closer. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Elain has interceded to ask for sanctuary on her and her sister’s behalf while in the human lands.” Lucien explains easily, unruffled by the clear threat. “Queen Vassa was gracious enough to accept.”

Queen Vassa. A reminder that though they may be furious with Lucien for swooping in and saving Nesta from their ultimatum, intervening would cause them to fracture an alliance that they still need. Rhys’ jaw tightens, understanding this all too well.

“You’re such a bastard.” Cassian sneers.

Lucien’s gaze flits towards Feyre for the briefest moment. His former friend stands there, back ramrod straight and something in Lucien shutters, before he flashes them all a sarcastic smile. “You know I can’t resist helping damsels in distress.”

Before Nesta has a chance to see the barb land, Lucien winnows them away. They arrive at what might have been a forest once, before the war. Some of the trees lie broken in two or felled completely, with patches of earth where nothing grows at all. In the middle of it all, there’s a stone path curving towards a menacing gate, guarding an equally imposing estate. It’s hauntingly quiet and empty, the grass away from the main path overgrown, flowers choked by weed. It looks about as unwelcoming as the Nolans usually preferred.

“Are you alright?” Lucien asks as soon as they arrive. Nesta nearly scoffs. They aren’t friends, and she hopes he won’t start pretending otherwise.

“Where is Elain?” she asks instead.

If Lucien is disappointed by her lack of answer, he doesn’t remark on it, instead he obligingly leads her into the house proper. The inside of the manor looks intact, unharmed and gaudy as she imagines it always was. But it’s large for so few people to inhabit it; she can practically hear her footsteps echo. Near the heart of the house, the building begins to feel more lived in. Warmth seeps outward from the room, and the scent of cinnamon wafts to her nose, the sound of Elain’s voice and soft, polite laughter reaching her ears.

That sets her at ease; Elain here, Elain okay.

When they round the corner and enter the parlor, they find Elain and Jurian sitting on the sofa. Vassa is nowhere to be seen, but then again, the sun hasn’t set yet. Nesta has no idea what the firebird could possibly be doing in daylight hours, but she can’t help feeling grateful that she doesn’t have to face the queen who was ever so fond of her father yet.

When the pair spots them entering, Elain’s face, which was already a rosy red, flushes to a deeper shade. Given the way that causes Jurian laughs uproariously, Lucien gives him a flat, disapproving look.

“Jurian. What did you do.”

The former human general shrugs with a grin “I was just telling Miss Archeron how quickly you abandoned me yesterday to find my own way home when she called for you.”

At that, even Lucien looks a touch embarrassed, though he quickly hides it behind general annoyance. “Stop pestering her.”

“Don’t you think she would be interested in hearing your drunken soliloquy on the eve of the new yea – ”

“No.”

Elain stays out of their bickering and rises instead to her feet to embrace Nesta. Nesta lets her, going as far to lift her arms and hug her sister back, though she is aware that it’s obvious how rigid she is. Still, Elain only beams at her as if everything was mighty fine and offers to show her to her new room.

Elain leads her down a few corridors at a leisurely pace, gently prying about the intervention in the meantime. Nesta tells her the truth, that it was nothing but a joke, and leaves it at that. She has enough bad blood with the Night Court to last multiple lifetimes. Elain doesn’t need to be dragged into this mess any more than she already is.

Her new room is sparse, empty, the clothes she opted to keep lain across her bed, her books neatly stacked on the bedside table. The binds are closed, choking the sunlight that seeks to enter, and casting the room in a sickly pallor. But at least there isn’t any dust.

“My room is a little further in.” Elain explains, giving directions with over exaggerated gestures, but Nesta ignores her in favor of walking towards the bed. Elain audibly falters. “Do you… do you need anything? Jurian and I are baking cinnamon rolls; they’re nearly ready, but if you’re hungry I can whip up something more filling for you!”

“No, no thank you.” Nesta says briskly. “I would like to be alone now.”

Elain’s face falls, but she nods and closes the door behind her, just as soon as Nesta promises to call should she need anything.

Once the door shuts, Nesta crawls atop the covers, atop her clothes, knees tucked into her chest. She takes a deep breath in and out, in and out. She tries to fall asleep, to escape the emptiness that sits in her chest and tries to pry her ribcage open.

But blissful oblivion refuses to come.

Chapter Text

When she arrived at the manor, Elain busied herself with unpacking for a while, hanging her clothes in the wardrobe ever so slowly, studying the arrangement of her plants with a critical eye and reorganizing them multiple times. Ostensibly, for optimal sunlight. Mostly just to stall.

The truth was that she didn’t feel ready to face the remnants of the estate that once belonged to her former fiancé, even if she had barely spent more than a couple of days here in the past. The thought of Graysen still fills her with sadness, but she isn’t always certain if it’s the man she misses, or the life she could have lived. A dream that could never be, one where she was untouched by war and strife. A small life, but a content one.

She touched the tip of her ears then, as she always did, when she needed a reminder, a way to ground herself in her new reality. Elain chided herself for her behavior and dragged the suitcase over to Nesta’s room, close enough to hers to be comforting for Elain and far enough to be comforting for Nesta. Lucien popped in to let her know that it was time he returned to Velaris to wait out Nesta’s intervention, just as she had finished unpacking Nesta’s belongings.

She thanked him and, realizing she had truly run out of excuses, resolved herself to make polite chit-chat with the remaining occupant of the manor. Jurian was all too eager to spend time with her, gleeful even to offer his help in the kitchen. Her very presence, it seems, caused the man great amusement. Quite possibly because it gave him the opportunity to tease Lucien.

Even after Elain returns from showing Nesta to her room, Jurian refuses to let up. The only difference is that spaces out his teasing a bit more now, to still catch Lucien by surprise. At yet another reference to whatever has happened on the eve of the new year, Lucien nearly trips over his feet to whirl toward his friend in outrage. That display does have the startling effect of making Elain smother a laugh, and she raises her fingers delicately over her mouth to cover it up.

Seeing her happy softens something in Lucien’s expression. That is, until a snicker from Jurian snaps him back to the present. In retaliation, quicker than Elain could process, Lucien grabs one of the decorative pillows and chucks it at his friend’s face. While Jurian sputters at the impact, Lucien sits down in the armchair, as if nothing happened and this time, Elain does nothing to stop her laughter from springing free.

It helps, she thinks, to see their camaraderie, even if she feels like she is on the fringes of a friend group yet again. But it’s as good a distraction as any from their problems, which are, unfortunately, numerous. They have managed to get Nesta out of the Night Court without trouble and while that is an excellent first step, it is hardly a real solution and more of a temporary fix. Even more pressingly, Elain has no clear idea of how they should proceed, or what to do in the interim.

Elain shakes off her gloomy thoughts and takes a sip from her tea. Yesterday was bad, and today was marginally better. There is always hope for tomorrow though, she reminds herself. Some things take time.

At sunset, loud noises come from the back of the estate. Elain stiffens in shock at the ungodly screech that slowly morphs into a more human wail until it ceases abruptly. Silence falls, but Elain can still hear that haunting noise ringing in her ears. When she looks to her companions, Jurian only raises his glass in mock toast.

“All hail, our queen has returned.”

It takes some time for Vassa to join them in earnest. She has clearly freshened up in the meantime, some wetness still clinging to her cheeks. She’s wearing a simple, modest wine red dress, which lends her an air of comfort, approachability. She is here to greet Elain, yes, but not in her capacity as queen but as simply Vassa. And though her eyes look tired, she still gives Elain a gracious welcome to her home, for which Elain offers her sincere gratitude.

Nesta hasn’t shown up all throughout the afternoon and Elain let her have her peace. But they have much to thank the queen for and it would be unpardonably rude if Elain didn’t at least let her know their host has arrived. When she opens the door to her room, however, she finds her sister fast asleep, her things either squished underneath her, or kicked off the bed. Elain frowns and pauses. Perhaps she should let her be. Nesta could probably use a rest more than the meal right now, and Vassa would understand. Probably.

“She’s asleep.” Elain announces, as she walks back in the room, noting that they have already set the table. She gives an apologetic smile to Vassa. “She’s been feeling unwell lately, so I think we should let her rest. You’ll have the chance to talk properly tomorrow, I’m sure.”

“Of course.” Vassa nods, without a hint of offense “The wounds this war has left run deep. I know that, perhaps better than anyone else.”

Elain’s brows knit together in sympathy. “Your curse… have you made no progress in unraveling it?”

As Vassa shakes her head, an involuntary mournful sigh escapes her, and Elain doesn’t miss the way Jurian’s attention snaps to her, beckoned by that sound. His mouth parts softly, as if meaning to reassure the queen, but he evidently thinks better of it and starts filling his plate instead.

“Lucien and Jurian have been doing their best to look into the matter.” Vassa clarifies, and though her eyes are melancholy, her honest fondness for her friends is evident. “Since not even that High Lord, Helion can find the knot to untangle the curse, we must find an advantage over the one who cursed me: the sorcerer-lord, Koschei. But so much of our time has been occupied by stabilizing the lands that once sat below the wall and… checking on my kingdom, that we hardly made a dent on it.”

Koschei. The name sounds familiar, and something on the edge of Elain’s awareness buzzes as she thinks, the prickling feeling of teeth scraping skin, scraping bone… But she cannot place it.

“Koschei is one of the old gods.” Lucien explains, noting her look of confusion. “Like the ones your sister struck a deal with. If we could find out what bargain the queens made with Koschei we may learn more about how to free Vassa from it. Failing that… any information at all about Koschei could be to our advantage. Sadly, there isn’t much and what there is, isn’t particularly helpful.”

“I’m also concerned about why he’s loosened his leash on you.” Jurian interjects, fixing Vassa with a look that suggests this isn’t the first time they’ve had this discussion. Vassa’s expression pinches. No, definitely not the first time.

“The terms he set forth to your father,” Vassa says addressing her words to Elain, while occasionally glancing at Jurian with irritation “was that I was allowed to remain for the duration of the war. But the war is not over. He still whispers in the ear of Briallyn, the vilest of the remaining queens, and whatever they conspire to do, nothing good will come of it.”

“Please Vassa.” Jurian scoffs. “Such a loophole would not stop the Fae folk, much less a death-god. He wouldn’t have struck such a vague bargain if it didn’t suit him. Nor do we know what cost your freedom came at – or if it was paid in full, before the Archeron patriarch perished. My condolences, by the way.” he says, gaze flickering to Elain for a moment. She can see the unsettling heat in them then, that same glint Feyre ascribed to madness. Then he fixes his gaze back at Vassa. “No, your majesty, you’re here because he wants you here, and he will whisk you right back when you no longer serve his purpose.”

“Koschei likely has ulterior motives,” Lucien remarks, tone not scolding, but certainly pitched louder, with a meaningful look cast at each of his friends like he is trying to get two fighting hounds to settle “but it also affords us more time to figure out how to break Vassa’s curse. We will have to be careful, but there is no reason why we cannot turn this to our advantage.”

“Can I help?” Elain chimes in, further distracting the queen and the general from their brewing argument. Because now all the eyes are on her. No one looks pitying at her remark, skeptical as to how she could possibly be of any use, but she still feels a slight irrational urge to backtrack. But no, she’s better than that. “I am no expert on the topic, but if I could look into what you have I may See something. And in any case I would like to help. If I can.”

Lucien flashes her a grateful smile. “I think we would welcome any assistance you may be able to give us.”

He isn’t surprised, she notes, by her tacit admission that her gifts remain. But then again, she wasn’t hiding it, not truly. She simply preferred not to speak on the subject, and with Nesta’s vehement denial, it was easy to slip by, unnoticed. She wonders how her sister’s power fares, but knows better than to push when things are so brittle between them.

Though… perhaps this kind of thinking led them to drifting so far apart in the first place. She can ask, without prying. Gently, like tending to her roses while avoiding their thorns. Elain thinks she could do it, or try in any case.

They migrate back towards the living room, once dinner concludes and stay up for quite a while, the night dragging on. The others talk among themselves, about the rebuilding efforts and strange monster sightings, but they do their best to invite her into the conversation, Lucien especially. Elain always does her best to play along, but she doesn’t mind perching on the armchair and just listening either. She is, truth be told, starting to feel a little sleepy, but not so sleepy as to escape already.

It is the queen who excuses herself first, an hour after midnight. Jurian, to her surprise, follows after her without a word.

“They always await the dawn together.” Lucien explains, voice tinged with bittersweet humor. “They could fight like cats and dogs all night, but they’d still wait together. Albeit in sullen silence.”

Elain stares at him, then at the corridor where the pair disappeared off to. And just like that Elain understands Jurian’s standoffish behavior. He is irritated by not knowing why Vassa is allowed to remain, not because he worries about Koschei’s motives. It is because if he does not know, he cannot prepare for it, cannot prevent it. A general, forced to fight a battle with a blindfold on. Does he go to sleep each day, wondering if she will be gone by the time he wakes?

“He loves her.” Elain murmurs softly, struck by that certainty like it was a prophecy. “Doesn’t he?”

“Don’t tell them that.” Lucien huffs a laugh. “They’re doing their best to pretend otherwise.”

“But why?”

Lucien gives her a small shrug. “We can all be rather foolish when it comes to love.”

Elain feels her heart race, just a little. She’s suddenly starkly aware that they’re very alone in the room, and how handsome he looks illuminated by the soft, warm glow of candle light. She can still hear his heartbeat, sometimes. She hopes he can’t hear hers right now.

Lucien hasn’t brought it up, not in all this time. That they’re... mates. She wonders if he ever will. How long would he wait for her to be ready to acknowledge the bond exists? Months? Years? Forever, if she wished it?

“Lucien...”

At the slow, cautious way she says his name Lucien goes utterly still. Elain stops in an instant. She isn’t even sure what she intended to say, to tell the truth. It was like one of her visions, where words would tumble from her mouth without conscious thought. And now that the spell is broken, she can no longer recall the shape of them.

“Can’t we start over?” Lucien asks, his beautiful features drawn. “Can’t we just pretend that there’s no bond between us except one of friendship? I told you the truth Elain, during the war. All I fought for was to know you, nothing else. I still wish to, if you will allow.”

The thread on her rib chafes. It makes her feel like she’s being rejected, urges her to plead with him to reconsider. But Elain shuts that irrational noise out. Lucien isn’t rejecting her. He’s giving her exactly what she wants. Spending time with him has turned out to be surprisingly easy. If she could let go of her worries, she could imagine them being friends. She finds that she would like them to be friends too.

And she has been ignoring that bond resolutely for a while now. It could hardly be called a hardship to ignore it even more. Start over. Nothing more than strangers, almost friends. Yes, Elain thinks she could do it. She smiles at him then, a shy but sincere smile.

“I’d like that.”

He returns her smile, his whole body relaxing, like a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Elain supposes it has. This whole business must have weighed as heavily on him as it has her. She’s glad that they’ve resolved this, for the moment.

Glad enough that even as she retires for the evening, she can feel that same smile tugging at her lips from moment to moment, like a bloom waiting to unfurl.

Lucien gives her all their research regarding Koschei the next morning.

Elain nibbles on her pancakes as she reads through their rather impressive collection of notes, copied from books that they were not allowed to bring with them (from the library of the Day Court, she is led to understand), and a few torn and tattered volumes, some from the human lands even, which have comments written on the margins by different hands.

Elain woke up first and used that time in the empty house to make breakfast - which she pointedly did not offer to Lucien and trusted that he would eat anyways. Jurian, as she’d been informed, usually doesn’t get up until noon at best, adapting more to a nocturnal lifestyle so he can watch over Vassa.

Nesta has been up at some point during the night. Elain knows this, since the pantry is considerably emptier than it was before. But her sister has apparently decided to fall back asleep afterwards - or otherwise lock herself in her room - because Elain has seen neither hide nor hair of her thus far. She tries to not be bothered by this. Just because Nesta accepted her help in getting out of the Night Court doesn’t mean she changed her mind about wanting to spend time with her, after all.

“You have your lives, and I have mine.” It still stings, but Elain does her best to push that hurt aside. It isn’t about her, it’s about Nesta right now.

So she focuses on her research rather than indulge in her desire to wallow. She tries to reach for that hollow place in her as reads line after line about the old gods and the Daglan, philosophical discussions on their nature and origin, a heated debate from two centuries ago if they’re one and the same, three different off-hand mentions about people trying to locate Koschei’s lake, with scribbled comments about lost lovers, and bad bargains. And though it certainly makes her head spin, nothing comes to Elain.

She stares at presumably artistic renditions of the death-god and for a moment, she almost swears she can hear a noise, something like wind caressing water, but that’s just as likely to be her imagination for all that they knew about his lake already. Her gift is fickle as it ever was, but that doesn’t mean she achieves nothing by reading through it all. At the very least, she’ll know as much about the evil they face as any one of them. It makes her feel a little better, that she is being involved, that she can be of use somehow.

She wasn’t in the best place, not during the war. By the time Elain has clawed enough of herself back together to offer any help, her sisters have stopped asking.

And there it is again. The reminder of how badly she has failed them both.

“Elain?” Lucien asks, looking up from his own paperwork. Letters, he has said, from the nearby villages. “Is everything okay?”

Elain doesn’t know if something has shown on her face, or if it was that treacherous bond that alerted him to her moodiness. She sighs either way, and closes the Folk Tales from North Scythia with a decisive thud.

“I didn’t See anything.” she admits, this one of her failures easier to own up to than others. “I tried but… my power rarely comes when I will it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Lucien waves off her concerns. “It would have been lovely to have some answers for once, but I think we’ve all learnt by now that we’re not allowed ‘easy’. It’s enough that you tried.”

Footsteps stomp towards them and Elain feels immediately heartened to see the outline of Nesta blur speedily towards the kitchen. When she returns with a plate full of pancakes and Elain can get a good look at her however, her heart sinks. Nesta looks awful. She has been sickly for months now, but this goes beyond that. Her skin is deathly pale and faint purple bruises line her eyes. She only murmurs a “good morning” and sinks into the armchair without fanfare, appearing unconcerned by her frightful state.

Lucien arches an eyebrow at Elain, as if asking for her to lead on this matter. Elain tries to plaster on a placid smile and reminds herself that Nesta isn’t a spooked and vicious animal. She’s her sister, and once upon a time, she had no problem talking to her.

“Are you feeling unwell, Nesta?” she asks mildly. Nesta stops chewing for a moment, to shoot her a blank look.

“No.”

“Your face suggests otherwise.” Lucien remarks, which is rewarded with a frosty glare and a curt:

“I slept badly.”

Elain exchanges a surreptitious glance with Lucien again, and the look Nesta gives the both of them practically dares them to press. Fine then. Elain won’t give her the satisfaction of an argument. There is no one better than her after all, to pretend everything is fine when nothing is.

“Lucien has just shown me his research about Koschei.” she explains instead, not allowing her pleasant mask to crack “He is the old god who cursed Vassa. They’ve been trying to work out a way to free her and I hoped that I would See something helpful.”

As Elain hoped, shock flickers on Nesta’s face, taking the bait. She lowers the fork from her mouth with a jerky motion. “You still have your powers?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

Nesta scowls and says nothing, which Elain takes as a “yes” anyway. The room descends into a stilted quiet for a few minutes, before Nesta speaks again, no doubt eager to change the subject.

“I don’t see why you need all this.” she gestures dismissively to the pile of research “Wouldn’t killing the thing free Vassa?”

Lucien gives her an incredulous stare. “Killing an age-old death-god is your idea of an easier solution?”

“The King of Hybern managed it.”

The fact that she - and well, Elain too - had killed the king in turn hangs in the air, unspoken but heard loud and clear all the same. Kingslayer. That’s what they call Nesta sometimes. Elain is glad, so glad that she has managed to escape scrutiny for her part in the deed. She isn’t Nesta, bravely displaying the king’s severed head like a trophy, a promise fulfilled. She didn’t even consciously mean to kill him. She just saw her sister in trouble and knew she had to save her. That’s all that went through her mind as she plunged the blade into that monster’s neck.

But the King of Hybern had the Cauldron on his side in that battle, and no matter how fond that… thing seemed to be of Elain, she is in no hurry to reunite with it. Even if she was, it’s not that easy.

“It’s different.” Elain counters gently. “Before they trapped him at the lake Koschei had managed to rip his soul from his body and he hid it in an onyx box. Unless we destroy his soul, we cannot kill him, not permanently.”

Nesta takes this information in with a huff, murmuring wryly about a treasure hunt under her breath. But Lucien stares at her wide-eyed.

“Elain, there was nothing in those texts about an onyx box.”

Elain furrows her brow. Wasn’t there? She recalls that detail quite vividly. She has the urge to turn every page once again, just to be certain, but she trusts Lucien’s judgement. He has been the one to compile this research after all: if he says this is new information it must be. But she trusts herself too. The words came to her without thinking but they’re correct, of that she is certain.

She has heard of this before, but where?

“I can never see him. What he is. There is an onyx box that he possesses, more vital than anything … save for them.”

With a horrifying jolt she realizes that these are her own words. She knows about the box because she has Seen it, back before she could have realized its true significance. And on the heels of the revelation comes one far more unsettling.

“Koschei.” she breathes. “I’ve been dreaming of Koschei.”

Chapter Text

Nesta and Lucien both watch as Elain rushes into her room, picks up a weathered journal and plops down on the bed. Elain starts flipping through the pages like a possessed person, all the while delivering a rambling explanation of how she Saw something about the box when Feyre was asking after Vassa, back during the war.

The pages flit by too quickly for Nesta to make out any words, but Elain clearly has a color-coded system in place, because she only pauses long enough to glance over pages marked with blue or red. Finding what she’s looking for, she hands the notebook to them.

Nesta glances at the date on the top left-corner of the page, and sees it dated over a month ago.

“This was the first, after the war.” Elain admits, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “There have been… others.”

Nesta and Lucien press shoulder-to-shoulder, each impatient to read Elain’s neat script. What they find is… unexpected.

“A glittering black box is in my hands. It’s cold, so cold that my fingers are freezing, but I can’t let go. I know I don’t want to open it, but I can’t stop.”

When they look to Elain for explanation, she simply tells them to find the next blue or red marked entry. As they do so, Nesta sees other scribbles. A short, yellow-marked entry about broken things mending and flowers blooming anew, gray for a dream about Elain being too late to save Nesta from the King of Hybern, another gray for burning a chocolate cake and then… blue again.

“There’s a girl. She isn’t me but I feel like she is, like I see through her eyes. A shadow watches her as she wails that she’d give anything everything. The shadow has no face but still it smiles as she begs and begs until something creeps up her throat, our throat. We’re choking and coughing and our mouth is filled with something wet and soft and horrible.”

Nesta forces herself to clear her throat, trying to push the sudden unease aside. “Why haven’t you told us? That you’re still Seeing things?”

“It’s not like you told us you still had your powers.” Elain retorts defensively, her calm mask shattering for the first time this morning. But she masters herself a moment later. “If I had Seen anything useful, I would have told you all. It’s just, I didn’t want to worry you without cause. You all fuss over me enough as it is.”

Nesta opens her mouth to argue, but finds that she cannot. Elain isn’t wrong. If they knew she had these sorts of dreams she would have been pitied and watched like a hawk. Maybe even pushed further to glean more, to give more.

And she is right about the other thing too: Nesta wasn’t keen to share the details of her powers either. She still isn’t, not even now. Last night, she slipped in and out of sleep, her sheets soaked with sweat and twisted by her restlessness. She gave up at the first flicker of dawn, her powers roiling under her skin, intent on a release. Nesta had thrown open the manor’s pantry and all the cupboards in the kitchen to try and find something to drink, something to take the edge off, and nearly broke down when she found nothing but the leftover from dinner waiting for her.

Eating helped. But Nesta didn’t manage to get a wink of sleep from that point on.

“I’ve been Seeing this, the box, the plummet, the teeth, more often lately. Not just in dreams, but waking. That’s why I hated going to the taverns.” Elain admits with a guilty look. “I couldn’t stand the noise, but when I blocked it out… this happened. The same vision, over and over. Of me falling into the box and being ripped apart.”

Nesta can’t make herself say anything to that, so she swallows past the lump in her throat and nods as a paltry compromise. Beside her, Lucien has stiffened almost unnaturally. She wonders if he too, is struggling to find the right words, or if he is trying to fight down those blasted mating instincts of his to protect. Based on how Feyre behaves around Rhysand, Nesta can’t imagine it being an easy feat to achieve.

“What do the markers mean?” Lucien asks eventually, voice a little rough. But the question is evidently the right one, because Elain rewards him with a small smile.

“Gray for what are likely only dreams. Blue for those dreams that maybe mean something more. Yellow for strange daydream thoughts. Red for what are clearly visions.” her smile falters. “There are more and more blue and red ones.”

“Would you mind if I… May I look through this?”

Elain appears conflicted for a moment, but then she acquiesces. “I hope you’ll be able to glean more sense out of it than I have.”

Lucien sits down beside Elain who only watches as he turns the page back to the beginning with curiosity. The blood roars in Nesta’s ears. She wants to bark at him to leave right now so she can talk to her little sister. She wants to know how bad these nightmares got, wants to tear something apart because since when are these two able to sit side by side in the same room without excuses? It was always Elain and her against the world and everything inside her screams at the wrongness of this all. How much of her sister’s life had she missed?

“You have your lives, and I have mine.”

She can’t forget the hurt on Elain’s face as those words landed. She knows exactly what went wrong, what had driven this wedge between the two of them. She did.

Nesta wants to flee almost as much as she wants to fight, to spit vitriol until they make her bleed too, because then at least she’d feel something other than empty. Her magic rushes to the surface, and Nesta closes her eyes lest the others see silver flames dancing in them.

She supports herself on the doorway, and is about to leave when a plaintive question from Elain stops her.

“Aren’t you going to stay?”

There’s something so fragile in Elain’s voice. Hope. Hope that is already half-dead, but hope nonetheless. Leave, her mind screams, leave before you lose control and hurt her. But Elain wants her to stay, doesn’t she?

Nesta peels her eyes open and prays to a Mother that she doesn’t believe in that the flames are gone.

“I was just going for a glass of water. I’m parched.” she lies, and as raspy as she sounds, she thinks it’s not so unbelievable.

Elain beams at her and something about her naked enthusiasm helps thaw the frigid icy flames that are trying to rend her apart from the inside.

Jurian emerges from his cocoon well past-midday. When Lucien bids him a mockingly cheerful good morning, the general only grunts, and - without turning to face him – flips him off. Lucien grins at that before resuming his explanation of the political landscape in the human lands. Nesta is trying her best to pay attention without it being obvious that she is interested. If she is to stay here for any length of time, she should be aware of the dangers that may lurk around.

If only so she knows how armed she needs to be when she inevitably sneaks out to raid a tavern.

Without copious amounts of alcohol or warm bodies to drown herself in, her magic is growing increasingly volatile. Last night proved that the manor is too big for her to stumble upon the Exiles’ stores of liquor without help any time soon and she highly doubts Elain would be thrilled if she asked around. As for warm bodies… she nearly laughs to herself. Her sister’s smitten mate, a resurrected and still slightly mad general, or a queen who apparently loved Nesta’s father more than she ever did.

No. She has to get out of here before she loses her mind. She glances at Elain, sweet little Elain, and wonders how quickly her protestations against locking Nesta up will dry up once she stops idly playing house.

When Jurian enters the room again and flops down into the armchair, the room derails into chatter. Nesta lasts only a few minutes before slinking off. Elain’s eyes track her departure a little mournfully, but she stays put where she is. How her sister can handle being stuck on the fringes of conversations, barely included, Nesta can’t fathom. She, on the other hand, is in no mood to listen to Lucien and Jurian bantering about… whatever it is that they’d be normally doing, if they didn’t have two Archerons to babysit.

She props her feet on her bed and pulls out her favorite among the romance novels Elain got her for last Solstice. She has read it before, the spine cracked a smidge, the book opening on its own account to a well-loved chapter. It has brought her joy, this story. More so because it was a gift from someone who, if hadn’t always understood her, at least this once had made an honest effort.

Nesta emerges only when Elain lets her know that food is ready, and retreats again until Vassa appears shortly after sundown. Nesta braces herself for a stilted conversation, but the queen offers nothing but polite greetings. Nesta tries to return the empty pleasantries, as best she can in turn.

When Vassa walks into the living room area with Nesta in tow, Jurian jumps out of his seat and surrenders it with a mock bow. Vassa gives him an utterly unimpressed look but she does, in the end, sit. Even though there are several empty seats left for whatever mad reason the general chooses to sink down onto the floor next to Vassa, like he is lounging at the feet of her throne. Nesta refrains from arching a delicate eyebrow.

She takes a stock of the room and when Elain pats the cushions invitingly Nesta sits down beside her on the sofa. Lucien walks out of the kitchen shortly after too, sparing one brief chuckle and a head shake for Jurian’s spectacle before promising that dinner will be ready soon.

Elain asks pleasantly after Nesta’s afternoon activities and all but lights up at the answer. Vassa’s brow furrows slightly, clearly puzzled by such a strong reaction but not so much as to ask about it. Elain elaborates anyway.

“I bought that book for her, as a Solstice gift. I admit I’m not as much of a reader as my sister, so I’m glad I picked well.” she says, smiling still. Then, no doubt in an effort to play mediator, Elain continues, directing her words to Vassa: “Do you also like to read, your maje… I mean Vassa?”

Vassa frowns. “I do. Though I’m not a fan of romance.”

Jurian cackles loudly at the remark, which is met with a sharp glare from the queen. His answering grin makes him look like an overly satisfied cat about to play with its food. “Do not fret your majesty. No one here would accuse you of being a romantic.”

Vassa scoffs, but Nesta doesn’t miss the slight redness in her cheek, nor the world’s least subtle look exchanged by Elain and Lucien. Well then. The number of available warm bodies may have just dropped to zero.

Following the small interruption of dinner which is occupied by pleasant but mindless chit-chat, they return to the living room and the atmosphere shifts. Vassa tells them of her rounds in the air, as seems customary. At the mention of more monsters lurking near the borders, Lucien frowns.

“It seems a talk with Tamlin is overdue.” he remarks a little tiredly. He glances towards the sisters and clarifies: “Even… so turned out from himself as he is, Tamlin wouldn’t let monsters roam about freely. But he likely would not be eager to admit being overwhelmed either.”

Lucien rolls his eyes even as he says the words and Nesta reminds herself that they used to be friends, once upon a time. Before Feyre happened. Her little sister has an astonishing talent for turning one’s life upside down.

“Have there been any more reports?” Vassa asks.

“A few.” Lucien answers “None have crossed the border yet, but we received several letters about things moving in the dark. Eyes flickering like lanterns, strange noises that sort of thing.”

Vassa turns towards Jurian and finds him already looking at her. He waves her off with a: “Yes, yes, I will head into town to talk to them personally.”

Nesta fixes Lucien with a searching look. “What if Tamlin rips you to shreds?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“He has hurt you before.” Nesta points out coolly and Lucien’s organic eye flashes.

“Yes. Because your sister convinced him I was complicit in plotting the demise of his court.” he bites out, then adds with a harsh laugh. “On top of, if you can believe it, having an affair with her.”

Nesta and Lucien stare each other down, while Elain’s gaze scurries between the two of them unsteadily, like a scared little mouse.

Suddenly, they all hear a quiet, polite knock. Nesta feels the magic in the air sizzle, as the wards around the manor flare up in warning. All eyes go to Lucien who rises from his seat with an overly dramatic sigh.

When he returns, his expression is even more put-upon; unlike his companion’s. Behind Lucien stands Eris Vanserra, whose carefully and intentionally crafted mask of amused nonchalance fades into naked delight at the sight of her and Elain curled up on the sofa.

“I see why you were so eager to turn me away, little brother.” Eris drawls. “My, my, stealing two out of the three Archeron sisters from Night? Darling Feyre can’t have been pleased with that.”

A muscle twitches in Lucien’s jaw. “You promised you had a point. I suggest you get to it.”

“You can hardly blame me for being surprised. With how rarely Night lets them come out to play, one could almost forget that the High Lady even has sisters.”

Eris’ words hit a little too close to home. Brandished and let out when she’s useful, put away, out of sight, when she’s not. Locked up. They wanted to lock her up. Nesta feels her fingers digging into the underside of the sofa’s cushion, her nails scraping against it. The motion doesn’t go unnoticed by Eris, who only cocks his head, smirk never once faltering.

“Of course, I would be hard pressed to forget your little display at the meeting of the High Lords, Nesta Archeron.”

Nesta meets his gaze head on, daring him to spew whatever insult is no doubt intended as a punchline. But nothing comes. Eris decides to make himself insufferably at home, and takes the seat Lucien has vacated in the armchair.

“Make yourself right at home then.” Lucien mutters with an acidic smile. Eris returns it with cheer.

Nesta glances towards Jurian and Vassa: the queen looks dissatisfied by Eris’ familiarity, but not surprised, nor insulted. It seems that this wasn’t the first visit they received from the heir to the Autumn Court. Nesta wonders briefly if Lucien has informed the Night Court of this, and then wonders why she would even care.

If they’re plotting something behind the Inner Circle’s backs, then good riddance.

“Eris.” Vassa speaks up, voice dripping with regal coldness. “Welcome.”

“My lady.”

Lucien, having no options left, takes the seat right next to Nesta, and fixes his brother with an impatient look. “Talk, Eris.”

“As you wish.” Eris begins, crossing his ankles. “Dozens of my soldiers disappeared from patrol. No signs of struggle, no evidence left behind. But my hounds detected a strange scent at their last known location. A human scent. Or… something that could have been human once.”

The Band of Exiles all look to each other, conferring in a silent way, but it is Vassa who speaks up in the end.

“We have not heard of recent skirmishes between Fae and humans,” she answers, her words measured “but strange beasts have been lurking near the border as of late. It is not the first peculiar thing to happen in our lands.”

“Strange beasts? How so?”

“That is what we intend to find out.” Lucien cuts in with a tight smile. “The beasts that we’ve fought in the past days have been more feral than usual, and the fact that they managed to slip by Tamlin…”

“Spring’s in trouble?”

“I thought you’d know better than I.”

Eris waves him off, the expression on his face derisive. “Father has bigger concerns than playing nice with our neighbors, unfortunately.”

Another knock comes at the door, far louder than before: the wards nearly shimmer to visibility at the force of it. Jurian groans. “Did someone spread the rumor that we’re hosting a fucking ball?”

Lucien rises from his seat again, prowling down the corridors with the same disgruntled look as before. Of them all, Eris seems the only one pleased by this turn of events, apparently looking forward to the drama, or perhaps the unintentional intel that will land in his lap. When he catches Nesta looking, his smile widens a touch.

She doesn’t avert her gaze. Yes, she was looking. Let him see that. At her resolute stare, a strange gleam of approval steals into Eris’ eyes.

The footsteps that come from the corridor are thundering and Nesta’s stomach churns before she even sees him. Because somehow she knew it would be him. When he walks into the room, Cassian looks over at the gathered crowd, his gaze lingering on her most of all.

Nesta is instantly on the defensive. So is Elain, if trying to shrink back into the cushions is any indication.

“What is the meaning of this?” Nesta asks, her voice shaking with an anger that is barely leashed, gaze going back and forth between Cassian and Lucien.

“He’s apparently here on Court business.” Lucien answers, settling back in his seat. But the suspicion doesn’t leave his eyes either. “Diplomatic business.”

“Diplomacy? You?” Eris laughs, and that finally draws Cassian’s intense gaze from her, only so he can simmer at the Autumn heir. “Did every competent person decide to up and leave the Night Court?”

“And what the fuck are you doing here?” Cassian asks, clearly struck off-balance.

“General Cassian. A pleasure.” Vassa cuts in before things can escalate. Her eyes are sharp like an executioner’s blade, hanging over the head of both her guests. Eris merely inclines his head, acknowledging the warning to behave but blithely ignoring it. Cassian on the other hand, realizes his error and bows.

“Your Majesty.”

Jurian coughs from the floor and says: “It only goes to her head when you call her that.”

“I am a queen, you know.”

Jurian meets Vassa’s withering gaze with a taunting smirk. “Last I heard, your kingdom was no longer yours. Are you still a queen?”

While they are locked in… whatever strange game of flirting they seem to be locked in, Lucien fixes his attention on Cassian. His voice is perfectly even when he speaks, but Nesta can see the tension lining his face. This evening went from bad to worse in a matter of minutes. “Did you come with news, or orders?”

“I…” Cassian’s eyes go yet again to Nesta, as if he was physically incapable of looking away. Let him stare at his fill, with those helpless pleading eyes, she thinks with scorn. Short of dragging her back to Velaris, she isn’t going anywhere. Nesta gives him a meaningful tilt of her head, urging him to speak, and Cassian seems to remember himself. “We give you orders as our emissary. But when you are with your friends, we only give suggestions.”

Eris snorts, and doesn’t even attempt to hide it. Though some part of Nesta bristles at the obvious and callous disrespect, she can’t help being perversely grateful for it too, because if Cassian is focused on Eris, he isn’t focused on scrutinizing her.

When Cassian demands again that Eris tell him why he’s here, Eris does so with deceptive geniality, sharing the story of his soldiers as he had moments ago. The discussion after that involves the exchange of more taunts than information, and Nesta nearly rolls her eyes at them. Centuries old and they’re still acting little better than children.

“Strange things have been afoot.” Vassa interjects calmly, effectively silencing the room. “But I know what it is you both desire to hear from me. Yes, there are stirrings of unease from across the sea: rumors of a conflict beginning anew, my sister-queens leaving their palace in a rush. All but one. Briallyn has been a favorite of Koschei during the war, and he whispers to her still. If you want answers, look to him.”

Hearing that, Cassian goes rigid. Briallyn. Nesta recognizes that name. The queen that turned to a crone. The one that blames her for such misfortune and has not made her dislike hidden, or so Azriel has informed her back when they still bothered with such things.

“Koschei.” Cassian repeats “The Bone-Carver’s brother?”

“The very same.” Vassa confirms “For now, he is confined to his lake. But everything he does is to free himself. If he had indeed spirited away your soldiers,” here she glances at Eris “then he must have a reason. It bodes ill for us, if he feels ready to show his hand.”

“Nesta.” Cassian says, voice raw. “You have to come home.”

Nesta’s eyes blaze. He said he was here on a diplomatic mission. But of course she should have known better than to expect he would leave the matter of her departure lying down. From the corner of her eyes, she sees Elain’s expression pinch.

(Does it hurt, she wonders, perhaps a little cruelly, that Cassian has barely even looked at her? That her return isn’t being pleaded for?)

“No.” Nesta says firmly. “I have made my choice.”

Cassian’s jaw tightens, and Nesta can see him slowly losing his temper. “You can’t be serious. Surely, you can’t think staying here is better than the House of Wind!”

“And what is that,” Vassa snaps, voice going frigid “supposed to mean?”

From beside her, Jurian’s expression darkens too, as if daring the general turned courtier to elaborate at his own peril. Cassian has the good grace to look embarrassed at his grave misstep.

Nesta takes a deep breath and summons the mask of indifference that gets under the skin of so many, Cassian included. Perhaps Cassian most of all. She looks him over once, and then looks to Vassa.

“Vassa.” she starts. “Am I free to leave here?”

“Certainly.” Vassa replies instantly, her bruised pride clear in her pursed lips. “Though I suggest you don’t wander far. These lands are, as we discussed, dangerous of late.”

Nesta flashes her a feral smile. “I am quite dangerous of late as well.”

Jurian offers her an approving grin, and rises to his feet.

“If I must be the only gentleman in this party, then so be it.” he says in his own, twistedly cheerful way. “Would you like an escort? There’s no one who knows the paths better than I, save Lucien. But he’s a boring fuck, who wouldn’t show you the best places anyway.”

Nesta’s startled by his irreverence to the point of nearly cracking a smile, which is probably the only reason why she accepts his offer. She ignores Cassian calling after her as she leaves, not once turning around to look at him.

Once they’re outside, she can’t help exhale a shuddery breath. She wishes she knew why Cassian still affects her the way he does. They’ve made no promises on that battlefield. Not ones they could keep anyway.

Cassian promised her more time. But when she was grieving, when she was lost, he was hurt that she couldn’t fall right into his arms. And then he flew right off to Illyria. And then he laughed as he gave another woman lingerie. And then he told her he didn’t understand why her sisters love her. That she should try, as if she wasn’t. As if trying to keep her broken heart beating in her chest wasn’t taking everything out of her.

Time, she thinks bitterly. There’s never enough time, not for her.

“So, where to?” Jurian asks, once they reach the front gates. “Assuming that is, that you actually wanted to go somewhere and not just rub it in the bat’s face that you’re not a captive.”

Nesta snorts. That’s more or less what she wanted. Now, however…

“Could you show me to the nearest tavern?”

Chapter Text

The gate opening and closing feels deafeningly loud in the sudden and tense silence. In the wake of Nesta’s departure, the discussion fizzles out entirely. Whatever Cassian’s original mission had been, it was very quickly abandoned and it seems he isn’t in the mood to salvage it now.

Elain gnaws softly at her bottom lip. Perhaps that is not a correct assessment. No matter what orders were given, Rhys did choose to send Cassian of all people to represent him. Elain isn’t foolish enough to not recognize that means it was always about Nesta, at least a little bit.

Only now that she’s left does Cassian’s wild gaze land on Elain. He cannot plead or argue with her, not without offering further insult to their allies, but Elain can plain see what he wants to say.

“I’m not my sister’s keeper, Cassian.” she tells him, bristling a bit. It shouldn’t hurt that he came to fetch Nesta, that he takes it for granted that, like an accessory, if Nesta came back, she would follow. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. “She makes her own choices. And so do I.”

Cassian’s face tightens, at a loss for words. From the corner of her eye, Elain sees Eris drum his fingers on his armchair, before rising languidly from his seat. “I suppose that was a rather fabulous end to our talks. Lucien, care to walk your esteemed guests out?”

It’s obvious that Cassian isn’t pleased that Eris has made the choice to leave for him, but he dutifully bows to Vassa, bids a curt goodbye to Elain, and follows Lucien out anyway. Once they’re gone, Vassa sighs and stares at the ceiling for two heartbeats of indulgent suffering. Then she stands and walks off towards the kitchen.

Meanwhile Elain… thinks. Save for their shared peculiarities (“Recite it, Elain” she can practically hear him, even now) she isn’t familiar with the layout of all of the Nolan estates. But she had stayed in this one before, just for a couple of days, during hunting season. She knows precisely which rooms are closest to the entrance where someone with Fae hearing may just learn a few things.

Elain’s feet move on their own accord even as she mulls it over. She thinks she can trust Lucien enough to tell her anything relevant, yes. But she also needs to hear what Cassian may or may not have to say for herself too. She needs to.

As she closes the door behind her and pads over to gingerly open the window a smidge, Elain can’t help but smile, even if it’s tinged with some sorrow. She is reminded of little Feyre, long before they lost their wealth, pressing her ear to the door of their father’s study, waving her tiny arms to instruct her to get closer, closer, maybe they’ll hear something. She remembers too how they both dissolved in a fit of giggles, when their father appeared behind them, wondering what on earth they were doing, eavesdropping on an empty office.

Elain lowers herself to her knees on the floor. She closes her eyes and strains her ears to listen. It’s quiet, muffled but she can still make the words out if she focuses.

She hears Cassian’s voice first. “So your worry about Briallyn’s alliance with Beron is about what it means for you, rather than the rest of us.”

Elain is startled, but smothers down any sudden movement. Beron. That’s the High Lord of Autumn, isn’t it? Why would he ever ally with the human queen? With Koschei? And what would that even mean for them? Would another war break out, so soon after the last one?

“I only wish to defend the Autumn Court against its worst enemies.” she hears Eris say, and then an answering scoff from Cassian. “Believe what you will of me, but we are allies in this.”

“Loathe as I am to admit it, Eris is right.” Lucien says. “Another war when most of the Courts have barely recovered from the last one would be catastrophic. Spring would surely fall, and with it out of the way, the human lands too.”

“Summer’s in bad shape too.” Eris adds, and Elain can practically hear the mocking smile in his voice “And if what we heard during the war is true, the Illyrians are quite close to turning on Rhysand as well. What an excellent time for someone ambitious to rewrite some maps.”

Cassian growls. “Fine. So we are to be allies in this, whether we wish it or not.”

“The brute understands at last. Yes. What you know, I want to know. I will notify you of any movement on my father’s part regarding Briallyn. So go home, report to your lovely master, and send out the shadowsinger. Find me when you know something.”

There’s a small pause, and Elain resists the urge to poke her head out, to see why.

“What are you waiting for?” Eris asks, dismissively. “Shoo. I want to talk to my brother now.”

“If he plans to stab you in the back,” Lucien remarks dryly “I will be sure to report it to Rhysand.”

“You all have so little faith in me.”

“Your reputation is hard-fought and well-earned.”

Elain hears Cassian grunt his reluctant assent and then a mighty flap of wings. She sinks lower on instinct, though she doesn’t think Cassian could have spotted her. Nor, really, that he could have done much about it even if he did. The Vanserra brothers are silent for a while, no doubt waiting to make sure Cassian is out of ear-shot.

“What did you want, Eris?”

“Cassian may be an idiot,” Eris says “but he isn’t wrong to worry about Briallyn. She has a near rabid obsession with Nesta. If she gets wind of her quarry taking refuge in the human lands… You’re an admirable warrior Lucien, but you can’t protect the Archerons on your own if she decides to attack.”

“They won’t go back to Night.”

“Ah yes, that was made rather plain. What did happen? That seems like a story and a half.”

“Ask them, if you want to. I won’t surrender their secrets. Especially not to a snake like you.”

“Fine, fine. But trust me on this, if nothing else: paranoia is the only reason I’m still alive. If it’s not Briallyn, it’s going to be Rhysand, and if it’s not Rhysand it’s going to be someone who hates Rhysand – which may well be half of Prythian. So strengthen the wards, and strengthen them to be near impenetrable. Talk to Helion if you have to. Secrecy will keep you safe for a while now, but the moment someone talks, it’s over for you.”

Elain’s mouth parts noiselessly in shock. This is her fault. She thought the worst danger the human lands could offer was an angry mob. She didn’t consider anything beyond that and now… Nesta will most certainly not go back to Velaris, not after escaping with her head held high. But if they stay, they may all be in danger. All because of Elain.

Outside, Lucien only asks, a little acerbic. “Am I right in assuming you intend to hold this over our heads?”

“It would be such a fine offering to Koschei, wouldn’t it? Father would be ever so pleased.” Eris’ laugh is a hollow scraping noise. “Luckily for you all, I’d rather gnaw off a limb than help him win the good graces of a death-god. This unholy alliance will be the ruin of the Autumn Court if it ever comes to fruition. I will not be complicit in that. So no. Consider this as simple brotherly advice. If you want to repay me, awed, simpering gratitude will do.”

“I appreciate your concern.” Lucien replies flatly. “I will take your words under advisement.”

“Please do. And Lucien? Keep me updated.”

“Don’t you trust your allies?” Lucien croons in a mocking tone.

“Night is a powerful ally, but a fickle one.” Eris throws out the words with a casual air, but the bitterness underlying them is plain even to Elain. “You’ve heard how quickly Cassian would have thrown me to the wolves. And before you begin preaching about how his distrust is warranted, ask yourself little brother why they sent the brute to negotiate when you’re their emissary. They don’t trust you. Probably never have, and will certainly not do so now when you’ve absconded with the Archerons. Hate me as much as you want, but we need each other all the same.”

“How reassuring.”

“Isn’t it just. Remember to keep in touch.” and then, before he bids goodbye, Eris raises his voice “And Elain? I admire your initiative.”

As Elain rises to her feet to stare out the window, she sees Eris offer her a deep bow and a smirk, before he winnows away, leaving behind a stunned Lucien.

By the time Elain gets to the front door, Lucien is already waiting for her. He doesn’t look angry, she realizes, but rather amused. Before Elain can open her mouth to explain, he offers her his arm.

“Shall we take a turn on the grounds, Elain?”

Elain nods mutely and accepts the proffered arm. As they walk, the half-gloom of the evening slowly turns to night. The forest foreboding and dead, but Elain can faintly hear the call of owls, if she believes in it hard enough. Lucien flicks out a hand and a small orb of fire comes to light to dispel the encroaching dark.

“I hope I haven’t insulted you, Lucien.” Elain starts, eyes drawn to the flame, so bright it seems to morph into pure light when she isn’t looking straight at it. “I trust you. Or I hope I can trust you. But I… My family has a tendency to be a little overprotective of me. It makes it hard to know what I’m missing, how many things I am simply not told, because they didn’t want me to worry. I wanted to hear what Cassian had to say for myself, no matter how ugly, that’s all.”

Lucien stops their walk and looks into her eyes. The firelight flickers over his features, and for a moment he looks solemn and considering, before levity springs back into his words. “Well then. Let me allay your worries, my lady.”

And then, without asking how much she already knows, Lucien tells her of the secret meeting. All of it, even the parts that she hasn’t heard. He doesn’t sugarcoat over the potential danger they may be in, nor does he shy away from noting that though Cassian was prickly, he has made no further attempts to persuade them to leave.

“Was that satisfactory?” he asks when he finishes. Elain resists the urge to playfully swat him in the face of his knowing smirk.

“Quite. I’ve heard most of it.”

When she admits that, Lucien laughs and Elain feels a matching smile tugging on her own lips. But she still has one more question. “How did Eris know I was there?”

“My brother is unfortunately quite a bloodhound.” Lucien taps his nose. “He likely scented you on the wind.”

Elain’s face twists in distaste which causes Lucien no small amount of amusement.

“Will you tell Vassa and Jurian? What you told me?”

“About the wards? Certainly. About my father’s allegiances…” he exhales loudly. “Jurian isn’t wrong to worry that Koschei could snatch Vassa any time he liked and the things Eris betrayed tonight may cost him his life if it came to light.” Lucien shakes his head grimly. “I have no love for my brothers, but I’ve already buried two more of them I would have liked and I don’t need the burden of adding a third. I will have to discuss this with all of them, Eris included.”

Elain squeezes his arm in reassurance. “I’m sure you’ll be able to figure something out.”

Even in the dim light, Elain can see the signs of neglect on the grounds. Much like the forest, some patches of the garden are desolate, barren and even where life thrives weeds have sprung up to strangle it. Elain frowns a little sadly and thinks she’d like the chance to fix something, if she can.

“I will not send you back to Night, if you don’t want to go.” Lucien starts carefully “But after everything, I have to ask: do you still want to stay here?”

“I will have to talk to Nesta, to make plans. But I’m certain she will not go back to Velaris.” Elain replies. “If the only alternative is staying here, then an entire Illyrian legion couldn’t make her leave. She has quite the mind of steel, you know. She resisted even Tamlin’s glamour.”

A faint smile flickers on Lucien’s face, but it is chased by melancholy. Possessed by some need to keep him smiling, Elain gently knocks her hips into his as they walk.

“And I,” she adds “would also like to stay.”

Lucien chuckles at that, a small victory, but one Elain cherishes either way. She tugs on his arm and insists they sit down on the stone bench near the small pond, mesmerized by its beauty: If Elain hadn’t actually visited Prythian, she might have thought she was in a faerie glen now, with how the water reflects the bright shine of the moonlight.

There are bugs buzzing in the air, dry dirt underneath her feet and dust on the bench, clinging to her skirt. She sees the echoes and reminders of a life she lost everywhere, but not now, not here. Graysen never really liked to get dirty.

Elain is content with the silence, content to watch as the breeze gently plays with the branches of the great willow arched atop the water. When she does speak, her voice is lowered, still reluctant to break the tranquility of the moment.

“I know the coming days will be… busy. But I would like to tend to the garden, if you’d let me.”

“Of course. I think we all would be grateful for the assistance. Jurian and I aren’t at home much and Vassa, well. I think you can well imagine the results of a firebird trying to weed.”

“Thank you. It would do me some good, I think.”

Lucien hums, deep in thought. “I don’t know if she ever told you, but when we were escaping the Spring Court, I asked Feyre about you. The very first thing that came to her mind was that you loved your garden very much.”

“I do.”

“May I ask why?”

Elain doesn’t expect derision, not really, but it’s still reassuring that there is no judgement in Lucien’s voice, no bafflement, only genuine interest and invitation to talk about something that clearly brings her joy.

“I don’t know if I can put it to words, but it’s… it’s the feeling of, you look at something so beautiful and perfect and alive and think: I did that. I nurtured them, I kept them safe, I made them thrive until they were ready to bloom.” Elain looks at the scattering of small, stubborn marsh marigolds around the edge of the pond and smiles fondly, as if at a friend. “It’s comforting. I can’t fix my life, or anyone else’s. But in my garden, I can make a difference.”

Elain feels a little silly and self-conscious in the face of her own honesty. She isn’t used to admitting things like this, not since before the cottage anyway. Nesta was always angry. Feyre was always bitter. Their father always lost in his own head. If Elain didn’t smile, didn’t pretend everything was okay, who would have? Who would have kept the candle of hope burning in the dark, if not her?

She isn’t sure what possessed her to be vulnerable like this now. Perhaps this is another test, like the one Lucien willingly offered, to prove him worthy of her trust. Perhaps she just wanted to see if she could trust him with her heart too, the bits and pieces that aren’t polished to gleam. She wants to be seen, all the parts of her, the good and the bad, and found enough.

(Graysen looked. He had seen her, and decided he did not want her. Deep down she knows that’s why his rejection hurt so badly, why it still festers.)

“I like riding.” Lucien offers after a heartbeat. Elain stares at him, surprised. “I like most things outdoors,” he admits with a grin “but riding always made me feel… free. Blissfully untethered from the rest of the world. I do also look quite dashing with my hair whipping in the wind, it’s been said.”

Elain lets out a small giggle, relaxing again. “Now you’re teasing me.”

“Unless you come riding with me one day, there’s no way to find out.”

“Maybe I will. Will you stay with me in the garden in return?”

Lucien huffs out a laugh, eyes twinkling. “I’m afraid you’ll be sorely disappointed: if there’s an opposite of having a green thumb I have it. Tamlin once joked that he wouldn’t be surprised if I managed to kill a plant by simply looking at it wrong.”

“That just means I’ll have more to teach you.” Elain replies sunnily. But then she sobers, lightly kicking at a sparse patch of grass with her feet. “Do you miss him? Tamlin?” she can plainly see Lucien struggle with the answer, so she adds: “I know what Feyre told me. I know he… lost himself Under the Mountain. But you can still miss him. The friend you used to have.”

Lucien smiles at her, a thing less of mirth and more of warmth. Affection. Gratitude.

“Thank you.” he says, and Elain wonders how long it may have been that someone allowed him to mourn the friend he lost, that he looks so relieved. “He saved my life Elain. He gave me a home when I had none. He’s been my best friend for longer than a human lifetime. So yes. I miss him, and I worry for him and I have no idea how to help him and it drives me insane.”

Lucien runs a hand through his hair, agitated.

“I can’t make excuses for the things he’d done. I can’t make excuses for the things I’ve done.” he continues. “That he was hurt or that he was worried hardly matters. He still did it. Feyre will never forgive him and I don’t think he will forgive himself either.”

“I’m sorry.” Elain weighs her words carefully, and if she scoots a bit closer to Lucien, that’s nobody’s business but hers. “I didn’t have friends like that. When we were still rich, I thought I did. But they all abandoned us after Father lost his fortune. And when we were in the cottage, Nesta got along well with Clare and Feyre had Isaac and I tried to, but I just didn’t fit. I was there, but not with them, not really. And now…”

She pauses. What friends does she have now? Do Nuala and Cerridwen feel betrayed by her? Were they even told she left? And Azriel… was he angry when he found her note in her place and realized what she’d meddled in? Does he miss their talks? Does anyone miss her?

“I don’t know what I have now.” she admits, staring into her lap. “It was always easy for me to be well-liked by people. But not… loved, not like that. Friendship like the one you had with Tamlin is rare and precious. I’d understand if you wanted to fight for it.”

Lucien can’t exactly argue with her, though it’s clear he wants to. He doesn’t know what she’s been up to in the Night Court because she hasn’t confided in him in all that time. If he tried, she’d know he was just offering empty platitudes. And she doesn’t want that, not anymore.

Elain knows she is playing with fire, but finds herself past caring. See me. Be honest with me.

“Give it a little time.” Lucien reassures her. “You’ve already won me over in a matter of days. Trust me, by the end of the week, Jurian and Vassa will have succumbed to your charms completely. Though you might wish they hadn’t. They’re a nuisance.”

Elain shakes her head with a fond grin.

“And I’m sure your friends in the Night Court miss you too.” Lucien continues. “They may be hurt and confused now, but through it all, they must miss you. I can’t imagine anyone knowing you and not feeling your absence like a knife wound.”

Elain wants to hug him, desperately so, because she doesn’t know where else to put all of this overwhelming gratitude. She doesn’t know if it would be welcome though, so she simply… his hand is so close to her on that bench. Elain’s pinky nudges against Lucien’s, a gentle, cautious press. And while Lucien starts a bit in surprise, he lets her hook her finger underneath his, in an imitation of a childish promise. Elain squeezes their interlaced pinkies and it’s only because of her enhanced hearing that she hears the small, shuddery exhale that leaves Lucien’s lips in turn. It’s nowhere near enough, but it’ll do for now.

“Lucien? Thank you.”

“Always, my lady.”

Chapter Text

The tavern is loud and rowdy when they enter, the night just beginning in earnest. Very few people look up from their business when the door opens. More do so when the first gasp sounds. This isn’t the village the Archerons spent their worst years in, but it looks much the same: the same meagre, stone buildings lining the street, the same hopeless, dulled air to people even amidst revelry. The familiarity is enough to make Nesta feel on edge, but while there are sneers on the faces of the townsfolk at her appearance, there is no recognition.

When Jurian strides in after her, whistling a merry tune and twirling a dagger in his hand, all eyes avert from them in an instant. There’s a few muttered curses about the “faerie-loving son of a bitch” but they’re quiet and cowardly. No one is going to bother them tonight, not even the royally drunk.

Jurian sits down at the bar, clearly not giving a damn that their mere presence made the air drop a few degrees. He gives the barkeep a wolfish smile and hands over a few coins. The woman dutifully disappears and reappears with a small bottle.

“A regular then.” Nesta observes drily. Jurian ignores her in favor of picking up the bottle and taking a large swig. Then he offers it to Nesta. Once upon a time, she would have frowned in distaste. Maybe a few months ago, she would have at least asked what the contents of the bottle were. Now she just swipes it and swallows without savoring.

It burns her throat as it goes down, but it’s a pleasant burn, a scalding one. After growing accustomed to the flavor of faerie wine, it tastes so terrible she can’t even place what it’s supposed to be. All she knows is that needs more of it, enough to make the world fuzzy and blurry, to ease the other need in her body, the more pressing one.

Jurian grins at her and asks for his bottle back. They switch back and forth for a while, until Nesta can see the last few gulps sloshing around, as Jurian’s fingers pick at the fraying, illegible label.

“So,” he asks finally “care to tell me what sorrows we are drinking away?”

Nesta stiffens, the world coming into focus with an unpleasant suddenness. “No.”

“Suit yourself.”

In one swift motion, Jurian drains what remains of their drink of dubious origin; Nesta has a very irrational and animal urge to growl at him for that. But there’s hardly anything she can do, other than sulk. She has no money, while he does.

Jurian cocks his head. “So… shall we dance then?”

There is a lone bard in the corner, strumming his lute in an effort to make the place feel more lively. But the music is drowned out by inane chatter, by laughs and shouts: even Nesta needs to focus to catch the smallest wisps of it. And though she is desperate to get closer, to feel the beat in her bones, she won’t do so at the cost of her pride.

“No one is dancing.”

“So?”

Nesta scowls at him. If she still had something to drink, she would do so just to escape being forced to make pleasant, foolish conversation.

“Most people come here to drink their sorrows away or have fun.” Jurian points out, annoyingly persistent. “It seems you want to do neither.”

“Aren’t you going to order another drink?”

“No.” Jurian answers simply. “I’m not going to go ambling home drunk out of my mind. I would be such a terrible company to Vassa if I passed out.”

That catches Nesta’s attention. Fine. She can’t drink. But that doesn’t mean she needs to endure the pleasantries. She feels her claws unsheathing, feels this dreadful need to scratch and hiss and hurt.

“Is Vassa the sorrow you came to drink away?”

The gleam in Jurian’s eye turns a little dangerous. He only leans closer, conspiratorial.

“Tell you what, Nesta. I will answer that question, if you answer it too.” then he adds in a low, mocking voice. “Or rather the real question is: just how badly do you want to make me bleed?”

Nesta feels furious at being read so easily, at being cornered like that. She has half a mind to storm out of here but she feels too stubborn and too spiteful to back down from this challenge now. So she makes her face blank, like she is merely discussing the weather with an amiable stranger.

“Lucien hasn’t told you why we’re here?”

“He said you were forced to make an impossible choice. So you left instead.”

“The impossible choice, to put it mildly, was exile to the human lands or imprisonment at the House of Wind. Or, no,” Nesta laughs, the sound hollow and bitter “I wasn’t to be a prisoner. My dear sister so dislikes that word. No, I was free to go, if I managed to walk down ten thousand steps that is.”

“How charming.” Jurian snorts. “What did you even do to piss them off that much?”

Nesta’s fake smile falters, her chest constricting with pain. She can feel tears, traitorous little tears burning like acid under her eyelids. She blinks them away, and forces her voice to be even.

(Choking on fear when Elain was dragged away, skin burning, bones breaking, coming out different and wrong, a monstrous cold writhing inside her, ripping her apart so it can escape, a crack of a neck and the weight of guilt, the promise of love reduced to smouldering ashes. How does one even sum up pain like that?)

“I was broken,” she says, fixing her attention on the small creases on the wood in front of her, “and bleeding all over the place. When it got too much, I drank a little too much. When it got too silent, I fucked a few people. And when I was hurt, I hurt people back. I was embarrassing Feyre with my behavior, apparently. Setting the wrong example as a citizen of the Night Court.”

Nesta looks up and finds Jurian watching her curiously, lips pressed together in thought. She tilts her head to the side. “Are you going to tell me I’m not trying hard enough too?”

The moment those airily spoken words are out of her mouth, Nesta notices something shift in Jurian. There’s a cold anger to him, glinting in the depths of his gaze, even as his lips quirk upward.

“I lost everything too.” he tells her, his manner deceptively easy, as if he’s about to share a joke. “My heart, my love, my life, all one grand sacrifice to win the war. And really, you would think death would be the end, wouldn’t you? That there’s mercy enough in the world, that it would be the final cruelty of existence. But of course they found a way to torment me beyond the grave. Of course they did.” he huffs a rueful laugh, then shakes his head. “I know how it feels to watch the people I love die in front of me and I know how the water of the Cauldron can burn, Nesta Archeron. If someone told me I wasn’t trying hard enough I might just have cut out their eye and worn it as a ring, see how they liked it. So no, I’m not going to tell you that.”

Nesta bites the inside of her mouth, so hard she wouldn’t be surprised if it drew blood. “Then how did you do it? Move on after everything?”

“I didn’t.” Jurian replies, with a small shrug. “There is no going back, Nesta. We’ll never be unbroken anymore, not like we were. We just have to find a way to live with it, grow around the cracks.”

“How?”

“Find something that makes enduring the pain worthwhile. Something that makes you want to survive, and then something that makes you want to live. Big things, little things, anything you can hold on to. For a while, only thoughts of revenge kept me going. I couldn’t give up, couldn’t surrender, not until I made those fuckers pay. And now…”

“It’s Vassa?”

“And Lucien.” at her mildly surprised look, Jurian smirks. “Just because I don’t want to climb him like a tree doesn’t mean I’m not awfully fond of that pathetic idiot.”

Nesta inhales deeply and thinks. When was the last time she got out of bed with anything other than dread in her heart? When was the last time she was looking forward to something, instead of drifting by and waiting for it all to just stop? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t even remember.

“But I did owe you an answer too.” Jurian says after a moment, and Nesta almost forgot that yes, that was what this was all supposed to be about. “Yes. The sorrow I am drinking away is Vassa.”

Unbelievable. After everything she has admitted to, that’s it?

Nesta, properly distracted from her morose thoughts, glares daggers at him. That asshole has the audacity to grin back. “I promised you an answer, not a life story. The answer is yes.”

“I hate you so much.”

“No, no you don’t.”

No, no, she doesn’t, not really. For the first time she feels… not light. That’s a bad word for this. But it feels freeing, for someone to acknowledge her anger, her grief and to tell her that she has every right to feel them. Perhaps, that’s what she needed, more than anything. Not for someone to try to fix her. But for someone to understand.

Night has properly fallen by the time they return to the manor. Jurian says goodbye to her at the gates to go and search for Vassa, while Nesta makes a beeline for her room. She is surprised to find the door cracked just a smidgen.

Her guard goes up, expecting the worst after the war, but it’s just Elain, sitting on her bed and absently turning the book she gifted to Nesta every which way. She likely left the door open to announce her presence instead of startling her, little good that it did in the end.

“Have you been waiting for me all this time?” Nesta asks as she steps in. Elain’s eyes snap to her.

“Hi.” she greets, gently lowering the book on the bedside drawer. “It hasn’t been that long, truly. Lucien kept me company for a while.”

“Has he? And since when are the two of you such bosom friends?”

“I… since…” even in the dark, Nesta can see Elain’s face scrunch up, her nose twitch. “Have you been out drinking?”

Nesta doesn’t mean to get angry, but something about the distaste written across Elain’s face, the disapproval in her tone snaps her already fraying control.

“Yes, I have.” she bites out. “Do you want to throw away the keys too?”

“I didn’t – That’s not fair Nesta!”

“No, it isn’t. I’ve seen you all on Solstice night, drinking like your life depended on it. How many bottles were strewn around then, discarded? Oh, but it’s okay now, see, because I wasn’t drinking alone tonight either. So you can spare your judgement.”

Elain doesn’t speak for a long moment and Nesta can feel the waves of her anger slowly ebb away with each shaky breath her sister draws instead of arguing with her.

“I didn’t come here to fight.” Elain breathes quietly “I didn’t.”

“Why did you come then?”

And then Elain tells her the lot of it. What she has overheard, what she discussed with Lucien. She tells it all, very quietly, very dispassionately. Nesta rejects the idea of going back to Velaris even before Elain could propose it and there’s a brief flicker of a knowing smile on Elain’s face at that, tarnished only by the sadness still pouring off her.

After she’s done, Elain runs her hand along the soft fabric of the blanket underneath her.

“Do you… do you remember, at the cottage, when we all had to sleep in the same bed,” Elain starts, voice a little wistful. “you would always try to hog the blankets during the night. And Feyre… sometimes she kicked in her sleep. I woke up with black and blue marks on my shin once.”

Nesta remembers it all too well. She remembers three girls being miserable and suffering. Remembers how small, how crowded that bed was, how cold it would get. Remembers trying to sleep through the agonizing pain of her starving stomach, remembers trying to cry soft enough not to wake Elain.

“I hated that hovel.”

There’s a pause. It’s a long one, broken only by Elain’s soft, pained sigh.

“I know. I hated it too.” then she stands, walks to the door. Her hand clutched around the door handle, she stops, and turns to look back at Nesta. “But I miss my sisters.”

And with that, Elain leaves the room, the door closing behind her with a soft click. Nesta all but collapses into her bed. She will have to get up. Take a bath, get the stink of the tavern off her skin. But for the moment, she can’t make herself move.

Her eyes land on the book on her bedside drawer and she thinks: I want to finish rereading it. Then her eyes flicker to the door that separates her from Elain and thinks: I want us to be okay. Then she recalls the way Jurian talked about Vassa and thinks: I want to help them.

And then she closes her eyes, and thinks one last wish so outlandish that she can barely allow herself more than a heartbeat to linger on it: I want to feel happy again.

Chapter Text

Elain feels the breath rattle around her lungs like a trapped butterfly. She waits until she has closed the bedroom door behind her to sink down onto the floor, knees tucked into her chest, warm, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

Rationally, she knows what this is: the stress of the past two days is catching up with her, or the past months really. This recognition is like an anchor ripped mercilessly out by the thundering storm of abject self-loathing in her mind.

Why can’t she ever say the right thing? Why is she so, so useless?

Elain Archeron, always too little, too late.

She has watched her sister suffer for months on end, flailed like a helpless child and only ever succeeded in making everything worse. Even now, when she thought she finally did something right, the truth was that in saving Nesta from a gilded cage she may have put her in the maw of the very beast that has been haunting her worst nightmares.

Elain lets out a muffled sound that might be a whine and shakes her head.

Feyre has already resented her for not being strong enough to hunt for them and now, when they’ve barely started mending their relationship, she went behind her back. She humiliated her, utterly and surely and Feyre will never forgive it.

What a sister she is. What a Seer, minutes late to save her father. What a friend, to leave behind everyone at Night without so much as a real goodbye, to have not once considered the danger she’d put the Band of Exiles in.

Why would anyone miss her? Why would anyone want her? What’s Elain Archeron really, other than a fragile burden?

She feels the faintest whisper of the bond, a warmth thrumming under her skin and Elain is so surprised that her head shoots up. She stops for a second and just breathes, even if it comes out in helpless gasps at first. It’s not quite… she’s not…

Lucien is glad they’re here, that she is here. So is Nesta. Despite everything, Nesta wants to stay. Her Seer abilities are unreliable, but if it is indeed Koschei haunting her dreams, she may glean something that could save Vassa too. And maybe. Maybe her friends do miss her.

Elain uses the sleeve of her dress to wipe off the sticky tears from her face. She stands up, opens the window, letting the chilly air in, and looks towards what she can see of the glittering sky through the broken and bent tree branches.

A few months ago, on a lazy summer evening, Azriel took her out to the roof of the House of Wind. They had lain out there for hours as he mapped out the night sky, pointing out all the stars that could guide her home if she was ever lost. She wonders if he’s looking up now and trying to find her among constellations.

Elain takes another shuddery breath, focusing on inhaling and exhaling until she no longer feels like choking. The heaviness of her misery threatens to overwhelm her still, but for the moment, she has broken through the waves.

They don’t hate you, Elain, she tells herself firmly. You can still fix it. All of it.

She focuses on the faint, secondhand warmth under her ribs keeping her company and for the first time allows herself to draw comfort from it. A reminder that no matter what happens, she doesn’t have to face it alone.

When Elain wakes the next morning, the very first thing she does is to hunt Lucien down and ask if he, as their emissary, has any of that enchanted paper that she has sometimes seen used in the Night Court. And whether he has any to spare.

He looks surprised to find her knocking on his door, but that surprise morphs quickly into single-minded focus as he takes in her appearance. If he is looking for any trace of pain on her face, he finds none: the despair she felt last night pales in the light of her determination to set things right. Elain knows her eyes are bright, her smile honest.

“I am well, Lucien.” she reassures him “And better for your help. Thank you.”

Lucien’s mouth parts slightly and Elain furrows her brow in puzzlement. It’s not that she doesn’t understand the expression on Lucien’s face because she does, it’s just that it looks so terribly out of place on him that it gives her pause. Because surely, Lucien Vanserra isn’t looking embarrassed? Dare she say, sheepish?

“Of course.” Lucien says and again, he sounds so stiff that Elain can’t help but wonder if…

“Did you not know I could feel it?” she asks and she can’t reign in the mirth in her voice.

“I wasn’t certain.” Lucien answers with practiced evasion and Elain knows that it’s utterly obvious she is biting her lip to keep from laughing. Lucien arches an eyebrow at her and she cracks, a small chuckle breaking through. He only shakes his head with a fond expression. “How delightful that my mortification brings you such joy. Am I allowed to ask what happened?”

Some of Elain’s joy dries up in an instant. She hesitates for only a second and Lucien drops it. “Alright. Well, we do have some enchanted paper in the library, since we needed a way to keep in touch with the human villages somehow. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Elain can’t resist trying to take a peek inside his room as the door closes behind him, nor can she suppress the strange sense of disappointment when she fails to glimpse anything. But she takes after him dutifully nonetheless.

“I think…” she says, trying to figure out how to best phrase this. “I think it was just the weight of everything crashing down on me. I’ll be okay, though. And it was kind of you to ask.”

Lucien takes that in, clearly not entirely convinced that she told him the whole truth. But what she told him was true too, so she hopes it will suffice for now.

The library is a rather grand name for a very small room: the Nolans barely used it for anything, the bookshelves neatly arranged but rarely touched. Now it seems to have been put to more use, the research papers of the Exiles taking up the entire surface of a desk in the corner.

Lucien walks over to the desk, pulls out a drawer filled to the brim with paper and hands one over to her. “Take one anytime you need. I’ll make breakfast. Any preferences?”

“I’d love an omelette.” Elain replies, already distracted by the thoughts swirling in her head. Her grip tightens on the paper as she considers all the things she wants to do differently. “Lucien. You said you’d need to visit the Spring Court soon. When, exactly, did you plan to go?”

“Ideally after breakfast.” he replies with a small grin. “I’ve written to Helion, or rather his emissary, regarding the wards, but I doubt that will go through today.”

“I didn’t mean to rush you.” Elain clarifies, feelings strangely nervous. “I’ve been thinking and I would like to accompany you. If you have no objections.”

Lucien looks too stunned to speak for a moment. “You want to come to Spring? To meet Tamlin?”

“I would, unless you think it would hinder our goals.” given her relationship to Feyre… the High Lord of Spring could be more inclined towards hostility in her presence. If that would be the case, she won’t push the issue. However… “I simply wish to be more involved and to see more of Prythian. I’d like to go, but I understand if you think I shouldn’t.”

“Tam may not be happy about it.” Lucien agrees with a wry smile. “But he’s hardly a monster. If he woke up on the worst side of the bed today, I’ll winnow both of us out. Does that sound acceptable?”

“It does, thank you!” Elain beams at him, excited by the prospect of visiting a different Court. But a sudden thought occurs to her and she looks down at her simple, pale purple muslin dress. In the human lands and in Velaris, the weather is the restrained warmth of early autumn. She has no idea what to expect from a Seasonal Court though. She pinches her skirt to raise it slightly and glances at Lucien. “Is this suitable, do you think?”

Lucien looks unbearably amused at her request and Elain’s words catch up to her brain. Specifically, who she just asked to weigh in on her fashion choices. She can feel the tips of her ear heating, when Lucien makes a show of looking her over head to toe with the thoroughness of an art enthusiast and says: “Perfectly suitable.”

Then he leaves her to her letter, promising to let her know when her omelette is ready. Elain sinks into her seat by the windowsill and stares at the paper for a long while, as if the right words would appear on them by magic. But she knows there are no right words here. Only true ones.

Dear Feyre,

I know the enchantment will seize the paper the moment I finish writing. Mother would be rolling in her grave to know that I set my pen to it without first figuring out what I wanted to say. I might say it badly. But I hope this will ensure I will say it all and as true as I can.

I don’t regret what I did, but I’m truly sorry if my actions hurt you. I don’t know how we got to the point where you felt like you had to make demands of Nesta and I, or where I didn’t think I could talk to you about my doubts. I wish we had done things differently. I hope we will have the chance to do so in the future.

Nesta was furious when she learnt about your plans Feyre, but she was also hurt and she had every right to be. Forgive me for being unpardonably rude, but would it comfort you to know that Tamlin tried to keep you safe when he locked you up? If you feel that spark of anger, please let that turn into compassion instead.

I’m truly sorry. I’ve failed you both in so many ways. But I cannot live my life constantly balancing between you two, weighed down and pulled apart by debts owed. I’m going to try to be better, to do better. But if I want to start over, I need to start letting go.

I understand if you decide to be angry with us, Feyre. Know that I’ll always be grateful to you. That even if you’ll never speak to me again, I will still love you, until my days run out.

Your sister,

Elain

Elain lifts her pen and waits and in but a moment, the parchment vanishes from her hand. She knocks her head against the windowsill, breathing as deeply as if she had run miles. There’s more that she could say, that she’d want to. But she’d like to say those to Feyre in person.

When Nesta climbs out of bed she finds Elain sitting on the sofa, a straw hat set beside her, like she’s ready to leave at any moment. Neither Lucien, nor Jurian are about. When Elain spots Nesta her expression lights up. It’s a muted light, tempered by their mild…. disagreement from the night before, but it’s there all the same.

“Good morning.” Elain says brightly. “Lucien has made omelettes; they’re in the kitchen. Jurian will likely wake up later, but when he does, he’ll head out into one of the nearby villages to discuss the monster sightings.”

“Are you,” Nesta interrupts, sizing her sister up “going somewhere?”

Elain gives her a nod that is only a hair’s breadth away from confident “I’m going to Spring with Lucien.”

It comes back all at once in a roaring wave, the fear when Tamlin burst into their hovel, her anger at male’s vile words at the meeting of the High Lords, everything Feyre told them of her time after Under the Mountain. Nothing he’s done or ever will do will wash that away for her. Nesta’s ire, once won, is hard to shake loose.

“Absolutely not.”

“Nesta!”

“You want to go to the Spring Court? After what that beast did to Feyre? What he did to your mate?” Nesta spits the foreign word with venom.

Elain grows beet red, like she often does when she’s either excessively flustered or incensed. The former happens ridiculously often. The latter very rarely.

“That’s quite enough!” Elain snaps, voice barely raised, but still ringing out like a lash. “This is my life. You have yours, and I have mine, remember?”

Nesta recoils as if she’d been physically struck. She deserved that, didn’t she? She said that to Elain to hurt her. It was only a matter of time before Elain figured out that it hurts Nesta in all the same ways and used it against her.

Elain’s frame sags, but her mouth is still set in a firm line.

“I appreciate your concern.” she says eventually, and Nesta can’t stop the scoff that escapes her. Elain fixes her with a stern look. “It won’t change my mind. I can make my own choices and if they’re bad ones, I’m ready to take responsibility for them. But I do know you meant well. So yes, I appreciate your concern.”

Elain’s expression pinches again, and she rises from her seat, hands clasped in front of her, making her look oddly formal. “I wanted to talk to you about something else, before I left.”

“About what?”

“Us. I… I keep putting my foot in it. Badly.” Elain admits, with a touch of self-deprecation that looks so wrong on her features. “It’s not, my problem is not that you’re drinking. Or that you’re… you’re…” The redness seeps back into Elain’s cheeks, but she clears her throat and marches on valiantly, if in a quieter voice: “That you’re sleeping around.”

Nesta laughs bitterly, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable all of the sudden. She wanted to fix things between them. Another intervention, first thing in the morning, is not at all what she envisioned.

“You could have fooled me.” she shoots back. “You can barely even say it.”

“I…” Elain shakes her head and huffs. “Fine. I don’t care that you’ve been fucking random strangers, Nesta.”

Nesta stares open-mouthed at her prim and proper sister and Elain just tsks, a small smile dancing on her lips.

“The things I must resort to to get your attention.” she says, before her expression turns serious again “Nesta my problem is that I feel like all that, everything you’ve been doing was because you were in pain. It’s that hurt that truly worries me. You know that, don’t you?”

Nesta flounders. She doesn’t know what to say to that, not with how tight her throat feels when Elain walks closer to her and takes both of her hands in her own.

“You’re my sister.” Elain says, and it sounds like an oath. “And I love you, no matter what. I’m not trying to be up in your business or tell you how to live your life because gods know that doesn’t work. All I’m asking is please, don’t shut me out. Not again. Let me be here for you, Nesta.”

Nesta feels a little bit like crying, a little desperate, like a cornered animal. How does she tell Elain, that she shouldn’t try, because Nesta will hurt her again and again? How does she tell her that hearing this means more than she could ever say?

Nesta swallows. I want us to be okay, she reminds herself. And the first step to that is accepting the olive branch when it is offered even if she isn’t sure she deserves it yet.

“Alright.” she replies, voice a little scratchy. But it’s enough to make Elain smile and leap to embrace her. She can feel the tension slowly ebbing away from both of them. As she tightens her grip on her sister’s back, Nesta whispers, too afraid that if she says any louder it will break this strange spell they’re under: “I love you too, Elain. Always.”

Elain hears it all the same, and nestles even closer to her.

Nesta thinks she honestly deserves some sort of reward for letting Elain go to the Spring Court in the first place and doubly so for not accompanying her, greatsword in hand. She hates the idea of her in the place that broke Feyre, but she trusts Elain to make that choice. Or no, she doesn’t. But she forces herself to act as if she did, and hopefully, sooner or later she will begin to feel it too.

After breakfast, she walks out to the gates and stares into the distance. She could slip out, leave, go wherever she wanted. The problem is that she doesn’t know where that could possibly be.

She paces around the grounds, absently taking in the unkempt garden, and then goes back inside. She explores the corridors that are lined with dust and cobwebs (nearly the entire west wing, she finds), opens doors which are unlocked, notes which ones are not. But even critiquing the interior design choices of the manor grows tiring after a while. When Jurian finally emerges, Nesta is already seven chapters ahead in her book.

He takes a long look around then asks: “The others?”

“Lucien has gone to Spring. With Elain.”

“Together? Alone together? Lucien and Elain alone together in a field of flowers?”

Nesta places the bookmark into her book and shuts it. Then she fixes Jurian with a look of calm only found in the eye of a storm. “I suggest you pick your next words very carefully.”

“Don’t tell me you’re not thinking it.”

Nesta looks him over, carefully, coldly and tilts her head to the side. “Did you take many blows to your head during the war?”

“You wound me. I’m just as insane as the day I was reborn.”

“Ugh.”

“So,” Jurian continues, sounding absolutely unbothered by her less than welcoming attitude. “is it going to be a sulking in the manor kind of day for you, or a tagging along to the village kind of day?”

“Originally, the latter.” Nesta replies with a falsely sweet smile “But I am having second thoughts. An empty manor may be a preferable company.”

“Ah, but an empty manor echoes quite loudly, so you’d have no reprieve of foolish thoughts either way.” Jurian shoots back with mocking cheer. “Are you coming, or not?”

“Now? Aren’t you going to eat something?”

“We’ll have lunch in the village. Make a whole day out of it. It’ll be fun.”

“Like pulling teeth.”

Despite her protests Nesta does follow Jurian outside. Jurian asks if she would prefer to winnow or walk and it takes all of Nesta’s willpower not to wince at the reminder that she can’t, in fact, winnow. He takes her blunt request to walk with a shrug and a remark that she ‘could use fresh air and sunlight anyway’. As they turn to walk down the dirt road, Vassa – as a firebird – swoops down and circles them once before she shoots back into the air. Jurian gives her a playful salute.

“She’s going to be around, keeping watch.” he explains, though Nesta did not ask. “This is her way of saying hi and goodbye.”

She would never admit it to Jurian, but the fresh air and the warm sunlight does make her feel a little better. It also helps that the general doesn’t try to make small talk with her this time around and lets her soak up the sun in peace.

But her good mood slowly leeches away as they draw closer to their destination. She didn’t ask where they were going, but Nesta starts to get a sinking feeling that she should have. She knows these houses and these paths. She knows these people too, the ones that gasp at the sight of her and the ones that try their hardest to look anywhere but at them. It sets her ill-at-ease to be back at this village and not even be the right species anymore. But she braves it, because she must.

When they enter the main square, villagers scatter at their arrival. They don’t outright break into a run, but they each hurry as fast as they can and escape into their houses. Mothers grab gawking children by their arms and drag them if they have to. Some even close the blinds.

“Does this happen every time?” Nesta asks.

Jurian grins wryly. “Every single time.”

But the place isn’t completely deserted. Unfortunately.

“Nesta Archeron.” a voice as smarmy and vile as the man it belongs to calls out. “A Fae. Will travesties never end.”

Tomas Mandrey’s distaste for the two visitors is made abundantly clear, but he walks over to them without fear. Nesta’s own heart lurches. She can feel the phantom pressure of his iron grip on her body, the unpleasant sweat-slick warmth of his skin. She notices his scarred ear and while the fear doesn’t leave entirely, it is momentarily pushed aside by a dreadful need to finish the job and rip his throat out with her teeth.

“Tomas.” she says coldly. “It seems cockroaches do survive everything.”

Tomas sneers, his temper flaring as quickly as it ever had. Jurian looks between them with mild curiousity.

“I take it you know each other.”

“I wish I never met him.” Nesta replies dismissively.

“Understandable.” Jurian agrees with a snort. But before Tomas could well and truly blow up at them, the former general says: “Fetch your dear father. Though if he hasn’t noticed the volume drop and decided to investigate, I worry for his health.”

Tomas’ scowl darkens but he miraculously decides to do as he is told and scurries off.

Nesta turns to Jurian. “His father?”

“Yes. They elected him as mayor right after the war. An unpleasant sod to deal with on the best of days but at least you can deal with him, which is more than I can say for some other villages.”

Nesta’s face sours. “Him? Mayor? What qualifications does he have, other than beating women?”

“My guess? That he was the only one who wanted the job.”

“Charming.”

After a few minutes of waiting, Andrew Mandray comes marching towards them. And march is the right word, for Andrew looks like a veteran soldier who can never find it in himself to lay down his weapon. His expression is unforgiving, his spine straight, eyes darting to and fro, always vigilant. But his severe look is greatly undermined by the blotchy redness on his face. Nesta has never seen him without it; she cannot be sure if he’s constantly angry, or constantly drunk. If she had to bet, it’s both.

“You here about the beasts, yes?” the new mayor says, forgoing any pleasantries. Tomas has obviously warned him about Nesta, because he doesn’t look surprised to see her. His lips curl when they land on the point of her ears, but he says nothing to indicate familiarity.

“Your hospitality never fails to astound me.” Jurian deadpans. “But yes.”

“Don’t know much. The sentries near the woods, where the Wall used to be, noticed beasties. They were far away, but their eyes still glowed bright enough to be seen. And then there are the noises.”

“The noises?”

“Yeah.” Andrew scratches at his chin. “The noises. For the past two nights we’ve been hearing… wailing. Keening. As if people were crying on the streets, but folks don’t see a thing. It’s driving us to our wit’s end.”

“Did anything happen? Besides the crying.” Nesta interjects “Has anyone been injured, or taken?”

Andrew sneers at her, like he’s debating whether to even answer her question. His good sense seems to triumph over his pettiness in the end. “Not as far as we can tell.”

“Really?” Jurian asks with a frown. “And no one recognizes the crying? No one at all?”

“You expect us to recognize people by their weeping? Good gods man.” Andrew exhales noisily. “No, no one knows who’s making the ruckus, every villager swears up and down that it’s not them and I can tell you no more than that.”

“I see. Well then, if you’ll excuse us, the lady and I will talk to the sentries. Please, do let the innkeeper know to prepare a table for us by the time we return. I am getting tired of them shrieking on sight.”

Once they’re out of the mayor’s earshot, Nesta shoots Jurian a look. “You know something, don’t you?”

Jurian looks troubled, more serious than Nesta has ever seen him before. “Quite the opposite, actually. I’m confused.”

“Explain.”

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Lucien and I were hunting pucas little to the east of here – you know, before he fucked off to check on Elain in Night three days ago. They’re nasty buggers, preying on a person’s desires. A particularly powerful puca could mimic sights, sounds and scents if it wanted to and it’s not a stretch to imagine some wondered westward. It’s only… If no one recognizes the sobbing, who is the creature luring? What’s the point of a trap that doesn’t tempt anyone?”

Nesta considers this for a beat then asks. “Are there no other monsters that can mimic sounds?”

“That’s the trouble: there’s far too many. Not helpful, is it?” Jurian shakes his head. “Let’s just get to the border. Maybe the sentries know more.”

They trek through the woods, the same woods Feyre used to hunt in. Nearer to the wall, Nesta can see encampments and hastily erected watchtowers. As they approach the nearest one, a young boy gasps, his bow fixed at Nesta’s heart in an instant. The other sentries whip around at the commotion, but their faces pale when they see her.

“Gods’ sake, put that down. We don’t shoot one of our own, even if they’re in an unfamiliar shape.” someone snaps before Jurian can get a word in. The young recruit starts, then reluctantly lowers the bow. An older man comes to greet them, beard streaked with white, wrinkles framing his kindly gaze. Nesta is surprised to find he is not only familiar, but known: Mr. Elliot, the village baker, who always made sure that on the rare days the Archerons visited his shop, they got the freshest goods for their money. “Miss Archeron, forgive the lad. We’ve heard rumors but I, for my part, scarce believed them. How did this come to be?”

Nesta’s face is utterly blank. “Not by choice.”

“Ah, I’m so sorry, my child.” Mr. Elliot replies with genuine pity. “More’s the terrible power of the faeries.”

“Speaking of the terrible power of faeries,” Jurian cuts in. “The mayor said you were having troubles? Flickering lights, noises, that sort of thing?”

Mr. Elliot’s face darkens. “Those, yes. The crying is damned unsettling but at least they’ve harmed none yet. The lights, whatever they are, already claimed victims on the other side of the border.” he shudders and several other sentries exchange nervous glances as well “We’ve heard such frightful howling yesterday that not one of us will ever forget it. We fear that whatever stalks faerieland will soon venture here.”

Jurian asks the sentries to point out exactly where they saw these flickering lights and climbs up the watchtower after them, looking over the vast realm that is the Spring Court. Satisfied, or rather, dissatisfied with the report, he tells them all to be on their guard and notify them at once if anything changes. Once they’ve climbed down, he plucks a paper and pens a short message of warning to Lucien.

Nesta feels restless, casting a look towards the trees that now once again hide the Spring Court from her.

“Don’t you need magic to work that sort of thing?” she asks impatiently as the paper disappears. Jurian smirks.

“Normally, yes. But these are already keyed specifically to Lucien. They tend to arrive at the funniest of times too, believe me.”

And with that, he bids the sentries farewell and starts to walk away. Nesta hurries after him, her teeth gritted, his nonchalance getting on her nerves.

“I really think we should – ”

“Lucien’s with her.” Jurian interrupts, not unkindly. “He’ll get her out the moment there’s trouble. For now, what we should do is make sure the village is safe and trust those two to get to the bottom of whatever’s going on in Spring.”

“But – ”

“One thing at a time, Nesta.”

She feels floundering, helpless and frustrated by it. She can’t winnow to them and she wouldn’t get far charging into Spring on foot. Jurian is, annoyingly, correct. There’s nothing she can do but wait and hope and she despises that more than anything.

Chapter Text

The sight that greets Elain upon entering the Spring Court makes her heart feel heavy, splendor and beauty rotting away right before her eyes. The vast, sprawling estate before her is nearly swallowed up by rotting ivy and roses that are more thorns, with the occasional muted red petal peeking out from the tangle.

Elain swings her troubled gaze around and finds that beyond this haunted house, the landscape is still lit up with a riot of colors, flowers blooming in eternal spring. But when the plants touch the borderline of this once grand manor, they wilt, green turning to yellow. If the Exiles’ garden looked unkempt, this one looks hated.

“Welcome to the Spring Court.” Lucien says, face drawn. He doesn’t wait for her to say anything about the atrocious state of the place, but hurries towards the main steps, eyes fixed straight ahead.

There are claw marks on the front door and it hangs slightly ajar. Lucien opens it with great caution, worried it may fall off its hinges. Once inside, he calls out for Tamlin but only silence answers him. The oppressive amount of dust makes Elain sneeze twice before they’re even in the house proper. Lucien shoots her a sympathetic look and offers her a handkerchief.

“What happened here?” Elain asks, taking in the empty room, the upturned, dirty furniture and the deep gashes in the walls themselves. “Was he attacked?”

“Oh no.” Lucien replies, lip curled. “This was all Tamlin.”

Elain shudders. It feels unsettling being here, a chill crawling up her spine and a strange buzzing in her ears, but she tries to shrug it off. She wanted to come, after all. “Is he not,” she almost says home but that would be such a grotesque word for this place “here?”

“Probably not, but we should look around, just in case. After our last parting, Tam might not have deigned to greet me.”

He doesn’t sound certain, but Elain agrees either way. They sweep the house, top to bottom, and find nothing but shadows, dust and splinters. As they pass by a door, Elain stops. She doesn’t know why, there’s nothing remarkable about it, except…

Lucien notices what captured her interest and gives her an odd look. “I doubt he’d be hiding there. That was my room.”

“Yours?”

“Until last Solstice when Tamlin ever so courteously packed all my life away for me, yes. I really don’t want to know what state he left things in there.”

Elain hears the thudding of his boots as he leaves, but she lingers a moment to touch the door, noting that the wood is unmarred by violence. As she catches up to Lucien she can’t help but wonder what would have happened if she was taken instead of Feyre. The idea that she would go out hunting or that she would knowingly dare kill a faerie seems so absurd Elain can’t even entertain the possibility of it, but the question lingers in her mind all the same. Would the bond have ever snapped if she was human? Would she have been flattered by a powerful High Lord paying her attention, and yet charmed all the same by his emissary instead?

Elain looks towards Lucien’s profile, jaw tight, tense and her musings stop short in an instant, as she focuses rather on how she could possibly help him.

Tamlin is not here, that much is clear and they can’t sweep the entire Spring Court. So Lucien leads them towards the closest settlement, hoping that someone there will have any leads for them.

On the way there, Elain asks him to tell her the names of each plant she doesn’t recognize, grabbing at his arm and gushing about how she wishes she had a notebook with her, to journal something less dreary than her visions. She is delighted, truly and sincerely, but she might play it up too, just a little bit, in hopes that some of her joy would latch onto Lucien as well.

The closest town is a little ramshackle, but Elain can see activity there, people scurrying about, trying to rebuild. There’s a High Fae female, sitting on an exposed crossbeam of a house yelling cheerful instructions to a small goblin carrying an armful of various tools. Broken things will mend, and flowers will bloom anew, Elain recalls one of her visions. She isn’t sure if this is what the magic meant but she hopes so.

A male on the edge of the town gives them a cursory look and then vanishes in a puff of actual smoke, reappearing a some ways further in. He leans close and whispers into the ear of a different male, wearing armor adorned with glittering blue and golden scales. The armored male looks to them, nods, and strides over.

“A soldier from Summer.” Lucien mutters a quiet explanation. “Rhysand had a hand in securing a small troop of them, I hear.”

“Greetings,” the soldier offers them a polite bow “emissary Lucien, it has been quite some time. And the lady is – ”

“Elain.” she answers, dipping into a tiny curtsy. “Pleasure.”

“Hopefully we won’t take much of your time.” Lucien says. “We’re looking for Tamlin. Do you have any idea where we may find him?”

The soldier’s face twitches like he wants to say quite something else than what he does. “Your guess is as good as mine. He was last seen southward, two days ago. He has taken to prowling the Court as a great big beast and while he is truly, ah, efficient at taking down monsters, it rather makes it impossible to ask for an audience.” the soldier pauses, then he sighs. “We’re doing our best to tend to the returning Springfolk and training new sentries but truth is, our numbers are spread thin. If you do manage to find the High Lord, emissary, I beg of you, convince him to ask for more aid.”

“We will do our best, I promise.”

It’s a vague direction, but it’s the best they have. They make their way through the beautiful, lush woods of the Spring Court, and Elain quite loses track of time. It must have been a few hours at least, because they eventually have to stop to eat their packed lunch (it’s like a little picnic and Elain adores it). Despite their daunting task she is beginning to relax and enjoy herself in earnest. That is, until they find the first carcass.

It’s the sharp tang of death that hits her first, and Elain gasps, covering her mouth and nose with her hand. She feels like retching and that feeling only grows when she spots the source of the smell. The body of the creature is torn apart viciously, guts and ichor-black blood staining the grass and splattered across nearby trees. There’s a stump near her, something that looks like a clawed paw, and a larger chunk that might once have been part of a back, its scales glittering dully in the sun, broken rib bones exposed.

She can’t even tell what shape the creature used to be, mangled beyond compare as it is. Lucien steps in her field of vision, as if that would erase the sight of it from her mind.

“I guess we know what the sentries meant by Tam being efficient.” he jokes dryly, then lays a hand on Elain’s shoulder. She starts at first. “It’s okay Elain. Don’t look at it. Look at me.”

Elain does, focusing on the way the sunlight filtering through the trees catches in Lucien’s hair, the calm certainty in his expression, his hand on her shoulder. She exhales.

“There you are.” Lucien smiles, voice soothing. His hand slips down her arm in an absent-minded caress. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I’m sorry.” she tells him, trying to look at the bloody scene as little as possible as they pass it by.

“Don’t be. I’ve seen a lot of dead monsters and this was disgusting even by my standards. And that smell, Mother above.”

Elain knows he’s trying to cheer her up, and it’s working. They walk out of the forest area to a gently sloping river and Elain listens to the water rushing by, calm, she is calm.

“Lucien.” she says, the scent of blood still clinging to her “Tell me something happy.”

Lucien pauses, looks to the river and his expression softens. “There was a Solstice celebration. Tamlin got roaring drunk and he had the brilliant idea that now was the best time to have a fishing contest. I, with more faerie wine in my veins than blood, naturally agreed. Of course the moment Tamlin actually stepped into the river, he slipped and then just laid there, face first in the water. Bubbles were coming up.” Lucien lets out a small, melancholy laugh. “When he emerged, sopping wet and pouting like a cat, I was laughing so hard, I didn’t notice him tripping me up until I was face down in the mud too. Suffice to say, none of us actually caught anything.”

Elain smiles faintly. She looks towards the clear water and finds that if she tries hard enough, she could imagine them there quite easily. There’s that same buzzing noise in her head and Elain has the odd feeling that she could See it, if she really wanted to, that something out there remembers and…

Lucien emerges from the river, absolutely drenched, and Elain is too transfixed by the way his shirt clings to his muscles to notice his hand in the water until he splashes upward. The smirk falls from Tamlin’s face as he tries in vain to duck. The water should have hit her too, it really should have but instead it passed right through her, as if she wasn’t there. She watches as Lucien and Tamlin descend into laughter and –

The scent of blood lingers, sharp and wrong –

There is a deafening roar in the distance, the sound of a creature in pain. She whips her head around, trying to find the source of the noise when that roar comes again, more heart wrenching than before. Elain takes off in a run, and the grass around her turns darker from the cover of gnarled trees that suddenly appear overhead. She runs and runs, whipping past low hanging branches until –

“Elain!”

She stops so suddenly that she nearly stumbles. Her chest aches with a flurry of panic that isn’t her own.

“Elain, stop!”

The bond. Lucien. She isn’t… This isn’t real. Or it is, but it’s not real now. She’s forgotten. How could she forget? But even as she ponders this, reality starts blurring, growing hazy, like being trapped in a dream. Elain closes her eyes, focuses on the thread tied to her rib and tugs, trusting it to take her home.

When she opens her eyes she is face to face with a frantic Lucien, clutching both her arms to physically stop her. He lets her go the moment he notices she’s lucid.

“What… happened?” she asks, taking note of her unfamiliar surroundings. They are no longer by the river but in a darkened forest, one that looks uncannily like the one in her vision.

“Your eyes went… unfocused. And then you started walking.” Lucien explains, mechanic eye whirring as he checks her over for any injuries. “You didn’t even hear me. What was that? Another vision?”

“I’m sorry, I know that had to be… Yes, I had a vision. Two actually, but the first one isn’t important.” she explains in a rush. “I heard a creature, howling in pain and when I took off towards it, I was here. This forest. I think Tamlin’s in trouble.”

Lucien’s jaw tightens. “Do you know where he is?”

Elain bites at her lip and considers the vast woods in front of her. The howl of the beast still rings in her ears and she has a vague sense of direction. Intuition. “I think so. But if not, I’ll just try to reach for that vision again and – ”

“What?” Lucien cuts in, dumbfounded. “You want to go back there? The place with the cold and the teeth and the unresponsive sleepwalking? What if you get lost again?”

“I won’t.” Elain says confidently, touching her chest. “You’ve pulled me out once. You’ll pull me out again.”

“I –” but whatever Lucien is about to say is cut off as a paper materializes in front of him from nothing and is promptly whipped into his face by the wind. He sputters, grabs it and rolls his eyes after scanning the message. “It’s Jurian, warning us about monsters. I think we’ve gathered that by now. Alright. Lead the way, Elain and let’s hope we won’t need to - well, let’s hope in general.”

Citing the need to hurry, Jurian borrows – seizes more like – a horse from the village. They fly down the road, the horse impressively fast despite carrying two riders. When they grow close to the manor, Jurian whistles once, sharply and entirely without warning. Nesta winces at the loud noise and glares at the back of his head. Even if he can’t see it, he should feel her displeasure.

The reason for such rudeness becomes obvious once a bird of fire streaks by. Vassa loops around them, keeping up with the horse, and lets out a sound that’s akin to a chirp but raspier, and repeats it two more times before flying off.

“Great.” Jurian mumbles. “Three chirps. We have a guest.”

Nesta’s hand flexes on Jurian’s waist, unease spiking. “Guest? What guest?”

“Easy there. If they were the bad sort, Vassa would have set them on fire already.”

Nesta scowls, not entirely convinced about that. It could be their so-called allies from the Night Court again. The idea that they would be back so soon, that Cassian might be standing in front of the gates is absolutely appalling. If he’s there, she’s going to seriously consider moving back into the hovel.

They may hate her in the village too, but at least they won’t try to disguise that with puppy eyes and concern for her ‘wellbeing’. She’d rather be stabbed in the front than the back.

Their visitor turns out to be indeed from Night. But it’s not the worst option, or even the second worst option, or the third. Because it’s Azriel of all people standing stock still as a statue in front of their gates. He inclines his head in greeting as Jurian and Nesta clamber from the horse.

“Court business?” Jurian asks immediately.

“Social call.” Azriel answers. Nesta arches a skeptical eyebrow, so he elaborates “I wanted to talk to Elain.”

“Why? To convince her to go back?”

“To ask if she was doing alright.”

“You’ll forgive me for not taking you at your word after your brother’s diplomatic mission ended with begging us to reconsider.”

“I’m not Cassian and this is not a mission sanctioned by Rhys.” Azriel tells her, arms crossed over his chest. “Elain is my friend and I want to check on her. If she doesn’t want to hear me out, she’ll tell me so herself.”

Nesta swallows down the barbed words threatening to escape her. Despite seriously doubting the sincerity of the spymaster’s motives, that mess is for Elain to handle. Her sister would be furious if she chased off the person who is likely her best friend in this changed world.

“Fine. But if you hurt her, I will throw you out of the manor myself.”

At that, the frosty determination thaws on Azriel’s face. He looks troubled, pitying. That’s far more annoying, Nesta decides.

“Nesta, I never agreed with their plans. I voted against it but – ”

But Nesta doesn’t let him finish. For a moment, worry over the shadowsinger’s visit vanishes from her mind, alongside worries over monsters and Elain’s prolonged absence. For a single second, there’s nothing but white noise in her head.

“What did you just say.” she grits out, the words coming before she could rein them in. Azriel falls silent in an instant. “A vote. You held a vote about my life.”

“We – ”

Nesta thinks about Elain coming to her in that tavern, how blindsided she was. She wasn’t asked to participate in this vote either, if she had to guess. No, no, everyone can decide the fate of the Archerons but the Archerons themselves. And from the startled look on Azriel’s face, another worry springs into being: how many times? How many times have they set her life to vote like it was theirs to decide?

“How many times Azriel?” she presses, silver flames sparking under her skin. “Because this wasn’t the first, was it?”

“No.” he admits, head bowed not out of fear but guilt. “It wasn’t the first.”

Nesta’s nostrils flare, her fingers curling inward into a fist, hard enough for her nails to dig into her skin. From the corner of her eyes, she sees Jurian watching the interaction with interest, but he doesn’t intervene. He simply waits, waits until Nesta’s prolonged silence is an answer in itself.

“Spymaster.” Jurian says, drawing Azriel’s attention back to him. “If you are any good at your job, I may have a task for you.”

Nesta is glad, glad that Jurian’s unshakable peace of mind offers him clarity enough to fill Azriel in on the situation, while she is overcome with the resentment, the humiliation of the truth. Nesta is doing everything to still her racing mind, to stop the shaking of her fingers.

Because she sees it, the faintest silver outline swirling around them.

They don’t have to go as far as Elain feared. In her vision-induced trance, she has already put them on the right path. They soon find splatters of blood on the ground, some of the same, foul-smelling black stuff she saw before, but some red and rich, forming a clear trail. From there, they hardly need to worry about getting lost. But with each step, Elain’s heart aches more. That’s too much blood for one person to lose.

And then they hear wet, ragged gasps and their steps quicken into a run. In the middle of a sunlit clearing, in a patch of grass outlining a much larger shape, lies a male. His clothes are torn, his beautiful golden hair matted and tangled. The red of still bloodied wounds gleam in the sunlight, and Elain is disturbed to notice that in his change, some injuries came out wrong – a mark of a jaw that doesn’t fit right, lines of claws pressed so closely together that it looks like he’s missing pieces. Tamlin tries to claw forward, to sit up, whining lowly like a beast, even if he’s no longer in that form.

The sight makes Elain stumble and still, so it’s easy for Lucien to overtake her. His feet carry him swiftly to his best friend’s side, and he kneels into the dirty grass without hesitation.

“What the hell happened Tam?!” he asks, eyes assessing every injury. Elain catches up and sinks to the grass as well. When Tamlin’s eyes land on her, dull as they are, something flickers to life. Spite.

“Leave.” he growls. “Now.”

Elain doesn’t even flinch, trying instead to make sense of the wounds on the High Lord. Some look older, but barely healed, while others are very fresh. She turns to Lucien, deeply concerned: “Why aren’t his wounds healing properly?”

Lucien laughs, but it’s closer to a growl in reality. “Likely because this bastard doesn’t give them time to heal. What the fuck were you thinking Tam?”

“I’m protecting my lands.” Tamlin replies, rasping a little, as blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. “My duty.”

“You could have asked for help! Mother damn us, it’s like you’re trying to get yourself killed!”

Tamlin falls silent for a moment, even his breaths stuttering. He screws his eyes shut. It could have been against the harsh glare of the sun, or the pain of his physical wounds, but Elain gets the feeling that’s not it. Lucien’s own expression morphs into disbelief and despair before settling into stony desperation.

“We’re taking you back to our manor.”

“No.” Tamlin snarls, eyes opening and landing on Lucien’s face in a furious blaze “I will not forsake my people, not again.”

“For fuck’s sake, you’re no use to anyone half-dead!” Lucien snaps, before the fight leaves him and pleads instead. “Tam. Please. Let us help you.”

Elain tilts her head and inches closer to Tamlin. The High Lord of Spring watches her, teeth bared, like she’s a dangerous predator. But Elain only reaches out her hand. She wondered what she would feel, seeing him in person. The bitterness of Feyre, the anger of Nesta, or the fond grief of Lucien. Mostly… she just feels sad.

“I think,” she starts, voice gentle “that we can always start over, be better. I don’t know if Feyre or your subjects will forgive you. But forgiveness isn’t the point. You can still choose to make the world kinder and more beautiful for them. For everyone. And that’s what matters most, doesn’t it?”

Tamlin eyes the outreached hand for a long moment, and then he moves a bloodied, clawed hand to grasp her own. Elain smiles at him brightly then reaches her other hand towards Lucien. Lucien looks like a man on the verge of crying from relief, from gratitude. He squeezes her hand and without preamble, winnows all three of them before the manor gates.

Lucien rushes off with a promise to get the others and soon enough Nesta and Jurian come rushing out of the building followed by - much to Elain’s shock - Azriel. Jurian and Azriel help Lucien carry Tamlin into the building, while Nesta falls in step with her, worry lining her face.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

Elain glances at herself, and notices the stains of blood Tamlin left on her hands, her dress. She shakes her head, wiping her hands on her skirt. “No. This isn’t mine.”

Nesta nods, satisfied. She says nothing else but Elain doesn’t miss her relieved exhale.

Once they deposit Tamlin on the closest empty room, Nesta moves closer, trying to inspect his wounds. The others glance at her dubiously and she puts a hand on her hip in defiance. “While you were all dying in the war, I was taking lessons in healing. I may hate his guts, but I don’t wish him dead – not now at least. You will let me stay here.”

Point made, Nesta and Lucien stay, tending to Tamlin’s injuries, while Jurian – mockingly though reliably – obeys Nesta’s orders to fetch her some fresh water and a rag. Before Elain could flounder for a lack of thing to do, Azriel gently touches her arm and herds her out of the room.

They sit down on the couch, and Elain finally has a chance to marvel at his presence. A faint, fragile hope flutters in her chest.

“You came.” she murmurs, doe eyes wide. “Why did you come?”

“I wanted to see if you were settling in well. I feel like the answer is no.”

“I have been enjoying my time here.” she admits, then catches sight of the blood still on her skirts. “Apart from this, that is.”

“I’m glad, then.”

Elain feels some of the tension that coiled deep in her gut for the past few days ease just by his presence. He came here for her. Because they are friends, after all. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was leaving.”

“I knew.”

Elain stares at him in disbelief. He was there with her as she packed Nesta’s things! And he said not a thing! Not to her or even to Feyre.

“You knew?! And you didn’t say anything?”

He shrugs, but Elain can see the smirk lurking in the corner of his mouth. “No one asked.”

Elain allows a small laugh to bubble out of her. “Thank you.”

“No need. It wasn’t my place to interfere.”

Elain hesitates. She isn’t sure she wants to know the answer the the question on the tip of her tongue but she is sure she needs to. “How did the others take it?”

There’s a pause. A very loud pause. “Not well.”

“I see.” Elain swallows. She guessed as much already. “Are Cerridwen and Nuala…?”

“They were upset you left, but they hid it far better than the others. Nuala is deeply loyal to Rhys and Cerridwen… I think she’s just sore you didn’t tell her. They’ll come around. Give them some time.”

“Tell them I’m sorry. And that I miss them.”

“I will.”

Nesta can’t shake the thought that what she’s doing is madness, plain and simple. She hates Tamlin. She will always hate him. But when she looks at him now, she’s back on the battlefield with a male in front of her who needs her help. And she’ll give it to him, even if she’ll be the one to tear him apart later.

Lucien heals what he can of his wounds and tries to keep his friend talking but Tamlin himself isn’t entirely sure what attacked him.

“Creatures, like the bogge and the naga, they went mad, like they did during… her reign.” Tamlin says, distaste at the memory evident. “But there were others too, things I’ve never seen. Massive hounds made out of scales and shadow, eyes glowing like silver fireflies. Dozens of them. I slaughtered what I could but they’re unnaturally resilient and wounds inflicted by them heal slow.”

“Some sort of venom?”

“I do not know.”

The door, already open, somehow swings more open as Jurian shoulders into the room with a small bottle, which he shakes pointedly. “I found a draught for the pain. But in the state you’re in, it may put you right under. Any last words, High Lord?”

Tamlin’s eyes are empty and lifeless already as they find Lucien’s. Lucien only shakes his head. “No, we’ll talk more once you’re okay. You’ve helped enough. Rest now, Tam.”

Nesta doesn’t spare Tamlin a second look as she washes her hands of his blood and exits to the room. Elain and Azriel appear to be in deep conversation, but both pause as they spot them. Luckily for her, Lucien seems content to do the explaining.

“Tamlin will need some time to recover, but he’ll be okay.”

“Any leads on what attacked him?” Azriel asks.

“Not much. Tamlin said it was a creature he had never seen before, scaled hounds with glowing eyes. Based on the description, the folk in the village may have seen the same thing.”

“Tamlin’s old as shit,” Jurian says, musing. “I’m old as shit. But I have no idea what that could be or where it came from.”

“They come to him.” Elain’s voice rings out. When Nesta’s head swivels towards her sister she sucks in a sharp breath. Elain’s eyes are totally unfocused, glazed. “The Cauldron Made, but when it was ruined it Unmade. Enchantments splintered, and weakened, and the chains of Death have grown looser. Foul things have woken up and answer his call.”

Lucien moves to kneel before Elain, taking her limp hands in his. Elain’s face doesn’t change, but Nesta swears she can see her fingers twitch.

“What foul things?” he asks softly. “The monsters?”

“Yes. And worse. Far worse. He has one, but he looks for the other two. He covets them. He crowned his puppet but he wants a mask and a harp, a harp the most of all, to make such wondrous music with. They tempt him, sing to him and he wants and he wants and he wants. Beware! The Dread Trove is awake and it seeks its master!”

With a final, enraptured cry Elain’s eyes flutter closed and she collapses. Lucien, lightning quick, grabs her before she could fall, and gingerly lays her back on the couch. Nesta, finally daring to breathe, goes to check on her sister. She heaves a sigh of relief when she sees that she’s breathing evenly. Only passed out.

Jurian whistles. “Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get worse. Way to go team.”

Chapter Text

Elain feels like she got hit on the head with a blunt weapon while outrageously drunk. Maybe she doesn’t technically know what that’s like, she corrects sluggishly, but given how the loud voices around her physically make her flinch, she imagines she isn’t far off. At first she thinks they’re arguing, but once her mind clears enough to be able to piece together words she realizes that no. They’re just very frustrated.

“I’m really starting to miss playing both sides. At least then I knew things.”

“Say the word if you’re tempted to swear fealty to Koschei, I’m sure Vassa would be more than delighted to escort you to him.”

“Lucien, respectfully, shut the fuck up. The walls have ears and she’d kill us both for even joking about this, you know that right?”

Elain rubs at her eyes and stretches, like she just took a small, perfectly ordinary nap. She’s a little unnerved, both by what she’s Seen and how it felt to See it, but she doesn’t want to alarm anyone more than she likely already has.

“Elain!” Nesta cries out and everyone’s attention instantly snaps to her. “Are you okay?”

“A little drowsy.” she admits and then starts to fidget with the sleeve of her dress. “Was I out for long?”

“No.” Lucien reassures her, even though he himself looks more than troubled. “Only a few minutes. And you didn’t start blankly marching forward this time around either. We’re making progress, I’d say.”

“In the meantime, we’ve been trying to make sense of your vision.” Azriel tells her, and Elain notices his shadows seem a little more agitated than usual. From across the room, Jurian sits in the armchair and gives him a blank look.

“And failing.”

Azriel looks just as unimpressed as he sighs in reluctant agreement. “And failing.”

Lucien straightens his spine, like a male preparing to charge into battle. “We may need to talk to Eris.”

“Eris?” Azriel’s tone is sharp, eyes sharper. “Why?”

“If Beron allied with Koschei, Eris may know something about the Dread Trove. Or at the very least, would know to keep an eye on it.”

“I wouldn’t share any more information with Eris than strictly necessary.”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t share the same air as Eris if it wasn’t necessary. But if there’s one thing we can rely on it’s that my brother will always look out for his best interests and keeping something powerful out of our father’s grasp is in his best interests. For now, we want the same things.”

“But we should be mindful when we don’t.” Nesta surmises. Lucien nods at her.

“Exactly.”

“Fine.” Azriel agrees, though clearly none too happy about the plan. “But if he betrays us – ”

“On my head be the consequences?” Lucien finishes sardonically. “They usually are.”

“Is this how Prythian intends to invade us?” Jurian snarks. “Being invited over into my home one by one for tea? Are we expecting the High Lords – and Lady too? Should I set out the fine china?”

Lucien smirks. “Maybe we should consider changing our name to the Court of Exiles, set up a whole infrastructure.”

“Don’t you even dare. We don’t have the luxury of pretending we were too drunk to know better this time around.”

Lucien laughs, a rich, warm laugh and despite the situation it does wonders at setting Elain at ease. He catches her eyes for a moment, trying to make sure she’s okay. She gives him a miniscule smile and some of the tension leeches from his face. Then he leaves, shortly followed by Jurian. Before Elain could wonder where Jurian ran off to, he returns with two glasses of water and offers one to Nesta and one to her.

“You looked like you could use it,” he tells Nesta and then briefly glances at Elain. “and I was already there. It’s probably good to drink after fainting. Maybe.”

Elain accepts the water gratefully and takes a generous sip, all the while casting a surreptitious look towards Nesta. She can’t immediately tell what Jurian spotted that she hasn’t. It’s subtle, but it’s there in the purposefully slow way Nesta drinks and her reluctance to set the glass down even after finally emptying it. She doesn’t outright fidget with it, but it’s beginning to dawn on Elain that it was only that she was restless and needed to be given something to do.

It takes Eris only a few minutes to arrive after receiving the summons and this time he doesn’t even bother knocking. The wards ripple and alert them of an intruder; seconds later Eris strides into the parlor.

“When I told you to keep me updated, I didn’t expect to be called back in a day.” he says, forgoing any greeting. “I wonder, are you all overachievers or simply incompetent?”

Azriel gives him a death glare, but he keeps his loathing under control - for now. “We need information.”

“Do you now? And what, pray tell, about?”

“Don’t enjoy this quite so obviously.” Lucien replies dryly. “We’ve received intel that Koschei is looking for a trio of artefacts of unknown nature.”

“And you hoped I could illuminate the mystery?” Eris cocks an eyebrow. “If he shared such ambitions with father dearest, he most certainly didn’t deign to take me into his confidence.”

From beside her, Nesta leans a little closer.

“You’re surprisingly cooperative, Eris.” she says pointedly, her smile honey sweet and oh so fake. “I didn’t think you were the type to confess to ignorance so readily.”

Eris gives her a mock bow. “I would never dream of being anything but perfectly honest. Aren’t we allies, after all?”

Nesta scowls which only causes Eris to look more satisfied than ever. Elain can see that her sister is still suspicious, that all the others are too. But, she thinks, if they don’t start trusting each other, how can they be expected to work together? They’re not going to get anywhere if they keep running cryptic circles around one another.

Besides, she has a good feeling about Eris.

“It’s called the Dread Trove.” she volunteers, which draws incredulous stares from near everyone and an outright hiss from Nesta. She carries on, voice bright, headless of the warnings. “Supposedly, it’s a crown, a mask and a harp. Koschei already has the crown.”

The silence following her proclamation is stunned.

“What?” she chirps and shrugs. “He is right. We are allies in this.”

Eris smirk widens, deeply pleased by this turn of events.

“Well then. I’ll keep my eye out for any mention of a crown, a mask, and a harp.” he enunciates each item on the list carefully, rubbing it in. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Elain, I really don’t…” but before Azriel can finish what is no doubt a scolding, they hear a low, keening wail coming from close by. Their heads shoot up. Jurian pales and walks to the window wordlessly, and the rest of their group follows close behind.

Outside, wandering in front of their gates is a ghostly pale woman in tattered clothes, with her back turned to the manor, attention fixed on the forest. She is wailing, gasping for breath, occasionally stumbling with the force of her tears.

“A banshee.” Jurian mutters and then curses. “Oh, that’s bad.”

“I’ll check out the border again,” Azriel says gravely “and get in touch with Rhys. We may need reinforcements.”

And with that ominous parting statement, he is enveloped in shadows and winnows away. Eris turns to Lucien, a mask of such utter calm on his face that Nesta is certain it has to be a lie.

“Care to explain what that thing is doing in your forest?” Eris asks sweetly. “If I know my history correctly - which I always do - the banshees were supposed to have retreated to the Middle after the mortals were booted from Prythian. I think there was even a footnote about an enchanted slumber in the Bog of Oorid?”

“Did we forget to mention?” Lucien replies, deadpan. “Apparently long slumbering monsters have awakened. It’s that sort of a day.”

“How delightful. And how did you find that out?”

“The hard way.”

“It’s a relief you actually recognize something for once.” Nesta bites out, fed up with being kept in the dark. “But what is a banshee and just how dangerous is she?”

“Dangerous?” Jurian echoes and it’s alarming, the note of hysteria that just barely creeps into his words. “Oh not at all. A banshee would never hurt you.”

“Then why are you all – ”

“Because they cry and lament people about to die.”

Elain gasps and all the color drains from her cheeks in an instant. “But I haven’t Seen anything like that! Are you saying one of us is going to die?”

“Unlikely, given that the banshee seems more interested in the woods than the manor. But – ”

“Unlikely?!” Elain asks, a bit shrill. But Nesta barely hears her over the sudden horror of understanding.

“The villagers.” she breathes. “They’ve been hearing banshees crying for days.”

Jurian’s face turns grim. “Yes, that’s rather what worries me more.”

Elain steps back from the window and says, suddenly and nonsensically: “I think we should talk to her.”

Nesta wants to scream, she really does. “Have you lost all common sense?”

“Maybe she could tell us something that would help the villagers.” Elain looks to Jurian. “You’ve just said they’re not dangerous.”

“Normally,” Jurian emphasizes. “normally they’re not.”

Elain pouts prettily first at Nesta then turns that disarming look on Lucien, who folds quicker than should be dignified. But at the very least, unlike her sister, he has the good grace to be wary enough to retrieve his weapons before they all file out to the courtyard.

When the banshee notices Nesta and Elain her tears cease jarringly abruptly. Wheezing one moment and the next – nothing. She walks over to the gate and reaches out a clawed, spindly hand towards them.

“You.” she rasps, her eerie voice carried by the wind, straight into their ears. “Sister in Death. Sister in Sight. You have nothing to fear from me. I’d never hurt anyone.”

Elain, sweet Elain gets even closer. Unable to prevent her stupidity, but hopefully able to prevent her death, Nesta flanks her from one side and is pleased to note Lucien moves to the other. Three times in the span of a day, Elain has decided to trust someone she really shouldn’t have. At a certain point, her luck will run out and Nesta can only pray she will be there to protect her when it does.

“What are you doing here?” Elain asks amiably, like the monster is just a shy guest at one of her dinner parties “Are you here to warn us of the hounds?”

Suddenly another wail breaks out of the banshee that stops just as suddenly, like it was an involuntary reaction, a seizure almost. The banshee’s red-rimmed eyes focus on Elain again, tear tracks sticking to her deathly pale skin.

“I’m here to cry for those lost.” she explains, sniffling. “So many will be lost, not just now, but later too, later. Something happened many months ago. Something dreadful. And something happened days ago. Soldiers keep diving, dying into our bog like autumn leaves falling. The tang of death in the air is too much. We can’t think. It’s too much, too much. We had to leave.”

“Soldiers?” Eris questions, walking closer. “Autumn soldiers?”

The banshee’s smile widens, revealing perfectly human if yellowed teeth.

“Soldiers like you, like you, so much like you.” she sing-songs, then her pointy ears perk up. “They’re here, they’re coming, they’re here!”

There’s a loud, mournful cry coming from above, but when Nesta looks up she sees only a firebird, chased home by the last of the sun’s rays dipping below the horizon. By the time she looks back, the banshee is gone, her figure wobbling deeper in the forest, the monster either inhumanly fast, or simply capable of winnowing.

Jurian looks towards the sky for a beat longer than the rest of them, then brandishes a dagger with flourish. “If they’re coming then we can’t wait for Azriel to return. We need to warn the sentries.”

Lucien looks torn, caught between Jurian and the Archerons and Nesta feels an echoing hesitation in herself. She cannot control her power and shudders at the idea of letting it loose, but if people need her…

Her doubts on where she’s needed evaporate the moment Eris laughs and slithers closer to Elain. “Oh, do go along little brother. I can keep watch on the ladies, if anything nasty comes our way.”

“A close watch I suspect.” Nesta retorts. “Attempting to see if my sister would give up any more of our secrets.”

“That wouldn’t make my protection any less watchful.”

The smirk he gives her makes her blood boil. Nesta closes the rest of the distance between them and does her best to loom over him. She’s surprised by how small the difference in their height is. Instead of furiously looking up at him, much as she is used to with the Illyrians, she finds herself looking straight into his amused amber eyes.

“Pull anything, and I mean anything, and I will kill you.”

Morbidly, instead of being put off by her threat, Eris seems ever more delighted.

Elain takes an aborted half-step towards Lucien. She looks hesitant, uncertain but in the end settles on making him promise to be careful. Eris catches Nesta’s displeased expression at the pitiful display and mimics it, as if they’re sharing a secret joke. Nesta rolls her eyes and turns from him. How she’ll endure a night in his company is anyone’s guess.

Lucien grabs Jurian’s arm and they winnow away. Elain lingers, watching the spot where they stood a moment ago, and only makes a move to go back inside when Nesta calls her name. When Vassa rejoins them, Nesta leaves Elain to explain the situation to the disoriented queen and instead tries to - unsuccessfully - lose her shadow.

Eris follows her into the kitchen and though he’s clearly eavesdropping on Elain’s conversation he doesn’t insert himself into it. It strikes her as odd - she didn’t imagine him capable of shutting up at all - but as long as he doesn’t bother Elain, she hardly cares what he does.

Nesta throws open cupboards and drawers, until she finally finds everything she needs to make coffee. Occasionally, she catches Eris grinning at certain parts of Elain’s recounting, most particularly at the mention of Tamlin’s presence in the manor. All that knowledge, flowing freely around him.

“Don’t pretend you’re doing much spy work.” she tells him bluntly. “If you asked her, I’m sure Elain would have told you outright. Probably would have taken you straight to Tamlin so you could give him a kiss goodnight.”

“Your sister is a sweet soul.”

“I’m not.” Nesta shoots back. Eris wants to make sport of learning everything he can of their business in one meeting? Fine. Doesn’t mean she can’t poke around where he doesn’t want her either. “What are your soldiers doing in the Middle?”

“If I knew that I wouldn’t be playing nice with any of you.”

She can appreciate his honesty, if nothing else. “Have you considered that they betrayed you?”

Eris’ eyes narrow and Nesta can see that she has struck a nerve. She wonders if those soldiers are more than subordinates to him. Are they close? Friendly even? That would be a secret worth unraveling.

“I have.” Eris admits, voice low. “No one is above being bought off by my father.”

“But?” Nesta prompts, sensing that the sentence didn’t quite end. Eris’ answering smile is humorless.

“My father can be short-sighted but he’s not this stupid. If he managed to seduce my most loyal soldiers to his side, he wouldn’t tip his hand like this. Not when he could send any ordinary troop to prance around the Middle. It doesn’t add up. I’m missing something and I hate missing something.”

“And once you decide we don’t have the missing piece? Are you going to run off to the Middle?”

“And leave you all behind?” Eris croons and laughs at the displeasure written all over Nesta’s face. “Of course not. I still have a need for my brother’s goodwill. And I have no idea what lies they feed you in the Night Court, but I’m not foolish enough to march into a place infested with primordial evil after sunset all by myself. No, my dear Nesta, I promise I will keep my word and watch over you all.”

“Promising to keep your word. What a lovely way to confess your honor comes cheaply.” Nesta counters. But still, when the coffee is ready, she pours a cup for him too. Eris arches an eyebrow at her. Nesta blows off the steam of her own cup and replies simply: “It’s going to be a long night.”

Vassa takes in everything with her usual grace, but even her polite demeanor can’t hide the almost forlorn way she thanks Elain for filling her in. It must be so awful, Elain thinks, to live with such a curse. Not just in the bigger ways, losing control of your own body, but in all the small ways too, always being left behind in your own life.

Vassa clears her throat, shaking herself from a melancholy stupor and fixes her attention on Eris, who is still hanging about watching Nesta make coffee.

“And that one?” she asks. “What is he doing here?”

“Lucien was worried about leaving us with so little protection. Eris volunteered.”

“Him?” Vassa asks, more than a touch puzzled. “I wouldn’t have expected him to be so generous.”

“Oh, I don’t think he thinks he’s being generous either.” Elain replies brightly, which causes the queen’s frown to deepen. “In any case, while his presence is comforting I wish…”

Elain trails off. She listens to the steady thrum of the bond, much like how she would put her finger on her pulse. It’s terribly faint, but it’s still there: echoes of determination, flashes of fear and anger, Lucien alive, Lucien fighting. While she’s stuck here, unable to do anything.

“You wish what, Elain?”

She puffs out a small breath, her hands twisting in the folds of her skirt. This will sound so, so stupid. She should just forget it. She’s not brave Feyre, or even fiery Nesta. She’s just… Elain.

“I don’t think I’d be any good at fighting,” she admits and more than that she doesn’t really want to be a warrior at all. She’s seen enough bloodshed during the war to last a lifetime. “but I wish I could do something. That I could be less of a burden.”

As her words sink in, Vassa’s face turns as hard and unyielding as granite. Jurian joked earlier about worrying Vassa might kill them and for the first time Elain understands what he means. Something about a displeased Vassa makes her feel chastened even before the queen says anything at all.

“If you wish to learn, I am fairly tolerably an archer.” Vassa tells her. “It’s not much, it was only ever for sport, but I could teach you, if it would make you feel better. But there are so many other ways to be helpful, Elain. You don’t have to be a warrior, not if you don’t want to.”

Elain looks into her lap. She isn’t sure the others would agree with her. Feyre, who tried to push Nesta into training, certainly wouldn’t. Sometimes Elain wondered if the matter of training her never came up not because they respected her wishes, but simply because they didn’t trust her to be able to handle it. That line of thinking always left her feeling sad and ashamed, so she tried not to indulge in it. And yet it always nagged at her. That worry of being found inadequate.

“Elain.” Nesta’s voice rings out. Lost in thought as she was, Elain hasn’t heard her sister approach. Yet there she is, standing beside Eris and looking so incredulous that it is clear she’s heard most of the conversation. “Do you truly think we see you as a burden?”

Elain opens and closes her mouth like a fish. She doesn’t want to hurt Nesta, but she also doesn’t want to lie to her. She wraps her arms around herself, feeling foolish and off-balance all of the sudden.

“Sometimes.” she admits quietly. “I don’t blame you for it. I know that after the Cauldron… I know I was in a bad place. I understand.”

Nesta sits down beside her. Her sister’s arm hangs in the air for a moment, unsure how to offer her comfort, or if she even should. Eventually, Nesta decides to hug her, gently prying her out of the protective cocoon she made of her body.

“Elain, you’re not a burden.” Nesta huffs, as if displeased such a notion could be viable enough to take root in Elain’s mind. “What happened with the Cauldron wasn’t your fault. Something awful happened to us. We’re allowed to feel awful about it.”

She sounds a little stilted and uncertain as she says it, like she’s trying to convince herself of the truth in her words as much as Elain and barely succeeding at it. Still, Elain relaxes a little in her grip.

“We’re worried because we care about you, not because you’re incapable, gods above. Forget that nonsense this instant, alright?”

Elain murmurs a soft “okay” and Nesta releases her. Her sister shoots an absolutely murderous look towards Eris, practically daring him to say something. Eris, however, doesn’t seem mocking at all. Quite the opposite, if anything, he looks surprised and a little… wistful.

Eris deliberately ignores the look Nesta gives him and looks instead to Elain. Straight at Elain.

“If you wanted to help, you could always learn to heal, like your sister has.” he says and Nesta’s scowl deepens at his casual reference to another piece of information he eavesdropped “Or even to make potions and draughts. You can save as many lives by a sick bed as during a battle.” Then he pauses and adds, an impish glint in his eyes. “Or you could always learn to brew poisons.”

Elain lets out a small surprised laugh at that and Eris grins back. It’s not a bad idea. She is knowledgeable enough about herbs that learning to mix – or, the thought occurs to her eagerly, maybe even magic them – shouldn’t be too difficult. She may not walk into battle with everyone, but she could still patch them up when they get home. And though Eris’ suggestion of poisons was meant in jest… why not? Why not learn how to make weapons for the others? Now wouldn’t that be helpful? Wouldn’t that be a challenge for her and a surprise for everyone else? She can see it now, Feyre’s open mouthed shock, as she presents her with death in a vial, dirty and grimy from a long day of work but face lit up with the satisfaction of a job well-done. She could want this. She could like this.

“Thank you. I’ll consider it.”

Nesta’s displeasure is starting to feel like a physical thing in the room, a spectral cat lashing its tail back and forth.

“’Playing nice’ again?” she asks Eris dryly.

“No playing about it. I’m nice to people who are nice to me. You can always try for yourself if you’re curious.”

“Somehow, I shall have to survive without it.”

Eris chuckles. “Good thing I enjoy your barbed tongue just fine.”

As the night drags on, tensions start to ratchet. No one actually says anything about it. No, it’s only that Elain goes about brewing enough tea to supply a whole army, Vassa barely speaks a word and goes as rigid as a statue and Eris, well.

Nesta isn’t sure how worried Eris is, but restless? He’s definitely restless. Or perhaps simply bored. In a way, she should be grateful to him for it, because supervising Eris at least gives her something to do other than focus on the nerves coiling in her stomach and the deadly ice scraping her veins. She doesn’t have anything to drink to numb it all away so trampling after Eris as he walks down corridors and slams doors open - much like Nesta had earlier - will have to do.

“I’m not sure what scandalous state secrets you’re scared of me finding in here.” Eris says, gesturing to the impressive amount of dust coating the insides of what once may have been a study. “That my brother can’t afford to hire a housekeeper? That whoever owned the manor before has atrocious interior design skills?”

Nesta says nothing, just purses her lips further.

“Indulge me, if you please. Is there anyone in this whole wide world that you actually trust? Because I’m beyond curious how they managed such an extraordinary feat.”

If he’s trying to get on her nerves for a reaction, he’s certainly succeeding.

“Surprisingly,” Nesta snaps back “I don’t please.”

That’s when they both feel it. The wards ripple, magic pressing into her skin uncomfortably like prickly thorns. Whoever their visitor is, Nesta suspects they’re not friendly. When she glances back at Eris, she finds his demeanor has nearly completely shifted. Some of his casual air remains, but his body is stiff, alert now.

“Go to your sister. I will take care of our uninvited guest.”

Nesta nods, shelving her dislike of the male for the moment. They race out of the abandoned west wing and Nesta intends to slip away to find Elain only they don’t make it that far.

The front door of the manor is splintered and cracked. There’s a vicious and near rabid snarl as night-black scaled creature tries to push its body through the gap, uncaring of the injuries it inflicts upon itself in the process. It howls and barks much like a dog but deeper, front paws banging on the door as its jaw champs around empty air.

Finally, it manages to push through the threshold, dark, viscous blood pouring out from the wounds on its stomach and legs. It looks like a hound in shape, but its massive body is covered in glittering black scales that seem to smolder with shadows instead of smoke. Something oily drips from its mouth and a forked tongue flicks out as it weighs its chances. It looks so much like those carvings in Hewn City, Nesta thinks half-consciously, but that’s not the realization that freezes her to the spot.

Its eyes really do glow like silver fireflies, but that light is far too familiar. It stares her down, straight to her core where the twin of that flame resides. These hounds aren’t just drawn to Koschei. These hounds are like her. They’re creatures of pure death.

Once the first hound has made space in the doorway another joins it, wriggling through the hole, making it bigger and bigger. There’s a crash and a crack, and the unmistakable noise of glass shattering. Some, it seems, have chosen other ways of entry.

Unlike Nesta, Eris doesn’t waste any time. He unleashes a bolt of fire at the closest hound. Its snarl grows more crazed as its skin downright melts away. But then it shakes itself and advances once more. The blackened bone is visible under patches of charred meat, but the thing is still horrifyingly alive. Eris gathers his nerve quick enough and turns his fire into a whip instead, wrapping it around the neck of the hound and knocking it back towards the next one to climb through the door, slowing them down.

Nesta notices that she’s shaking in an abstract way, as if it was happening to someone else. She should be running, making sure Elain is safe, but she can’t make her feet move. The thing under her skin begs to be released, death crowing at the presence of death and she can’t stop it, she can’t. Starbursts dance in her vision when she hears a distant shriek, a shriek she knows too well and her control snaps.

The magic leaves her body in arcs, like ripples made in a pond after one drops a stone into them. Nesta closes her eyes and falls to her knees, and she’s drowning, drowning again, desperate for air in the Cauldron and there’s nothing but empty darkness and she can’t get out, she can’t breathe. She claws at her throat, because maybe if she tears it open she could let the oxygen in that way, or at least ease her suffering. But reprieve doesn’t come.

There’s a glint of golden-red in her periphery, a shout, muffled, underwater. A voice calls her name, before it hisses in pain. There’s a loud thud, something sizzling, burning, freezing. The golden-red light comes closer, and something touches her icy skin.

“Nesta, you have to stop!”

But she can’t. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t breathe. Her lungs feel like they’re going to collapse on her, her body contorting with pain. The golden-red light comes back, more insistent.

“Nesta, breathe.”

She shakes her head desperately, because she cannot. Then there’s warmth, warmth where there wasn’t one before. And that makes her pause. The Cauldron was never warm. Her own powers, the treacherous maelstrom of death trapped in her chest, that was never warm either. Yet there it is, just a pinprick of it, but spreading through her body anyway.

Nesta opens her eyes and gulps for air. With her last bit of awareness flowing back, her power slams back into her chest, a prisoner once more. Eris stands before her, wreathed in a halo of guttering flame; once he is certain Nesta isn’t going to burn him alive, what remains of his fiery shield winks out. That’s when Nesta takes in the devastation around them.

There’s nothing left of the hounds but blackened dust swirling in the air. Several small burn marks line the walls, like they had been sliced through. Cold still seeps out from them, simmering with the echoes of her magic. Her doing. All of this.

Nesta feels sick. The worst part is that she suspected something like this might happen. Her magic has been getting increasingly volatile recently, nearly breaking through several times. Of course it would wreck her when it escaped. And everything in its path.

There’s a loud snarl from the heart of the house and Nesta’s heart nearly stops. Elain. Elain.

She shoots one last desperate look towards Eris before breaking into a sprint. When she reaches the parlor she finds Tamlin in his beast form, tearing a hound clean apart. Her eyes go to the end of the room, where Elain and Vassa stand, one paralyzed by fear, one warily scanning the room for more threats.

Once the creature stops twitching, Tamlin transforms back and supports himself on the back of the sofa, panting unevenly.

Eris’s footsteps come a beat later too, surveying the scene. His eyes lock with Tamlin’s.

“Nesta and I dealt with the ones at the hall.” Eris says diplomatically, and Nesta whips her head towards him. She expects him to mention her utter loss of control, but he carries on as if that never happened. “We should make sure no other monsters have slipped through our defenses.”

“I agree.” Tamlin says, voice regal, if tired. “I’ll take a look around outside, you check the rest of the manor.”

Without waiting for argument the High Lord stalks off, Eris hot on his heels. He doesn’t even glance back at Nesta. For a split second Nesta debates running after him, just to make sure he doesn’t say anything to Tamlin he shouldn’t.

“Are you alright?” Elain asks, rushing towards her. Nesta swallows down the bile in her throat and bats Elain’s fussing hands away.

“I was with Eris the whole time, we’re both okay.” she says a little too quickly, which isn’t a lie, not really. She’s ashamed and deeply disturbed but alright in all the ways it matters. Her main concern now is Elain. “I heard you screaming. Did something –”

“No, no.” Elain shakes her head quickly, eyes flicking back to Vassa for a moment. “We’re fine. Tamlin got to us in time.”

Nesta exhales deeply in relief. She may hate that male, but for this, only for this, he will have her gratitude.

Chapter Text

Elain can barely sit still for more than a few minutes at a time. It’s been nearly two hours since the others have left and half an hour since the hounds attacked and if Elain didn’t feel it in her heart that Lucien was alive and not wrecked by grief for the fallen either, she’d have gone mad. She may still.

Tamlin has mended their broken window and that was by and large the only sign of the High Lord’s presence. He hasn’t come back inside; sometimes, when Elain walks to a window she can see a shape moving in the dark and she dearly hopes that it’s Tamlin prowling about.

Unlike Tamlin, Eris has returned and thrown himself into the armchair. His eyes keep flitting towards Nesta intermittently who seems wholly unaware of his attention, or of anything else really. Nesta drinks the tea Elain made (no doubt is lukewarm by now) without so much as a grimace, an utterly vacant expression on her face.

Nesta told her that the hounds broke through the door and that she had to use her magic to destroy them - the first time she admitted to still having her powers - but she hasn’t spoken much since. No one has for a while.

Night falls in earnest and the little clock strikes the two-hour mark of their leaving when Elain feels something shift through the bond. The smallest of tugs. She jumps to her feet even before she feels the wards ripple. As she runs towards the door she can’t help notice something, for a lack of better word, strange. The acrid smell of burning is expected if woefully stomach turning given that Nesta and Eris fought the hounds here, but the air feels unusually cold too. She wonders if maybe they missed a broken window somewhere.

But all her discomfort and musing is forgotten when the door opens.

Lucien walks through first. Elain frantically scans his body for injuries and notes that though his clothes are covered in the same black ichor that the hounds bled, he doesn’t seem to be in pain, only tired. And that tiredness seems to lighten the moment he spots her.

Elain stares at him for a long moment, the weight of the hours spent waiting and worrying falling off her in a rush. They’re safe, he is safe. Alive.

“Hi.” Elain says with a smile.

“Hi.” Lucien returns. And this time, Elain doesn’t overthink it, just flies into his arms and draws him into a brief hug. The air leaves him in surprised whoosh, but he hugs her back all the same and she can feel the small, quiet laugh rumble through his chest. Elain steps back, just as quickly as she has embraced him, her smile still fixed.

Lucien gives her one last fond look, before his attention strays to the group no doubt gathering behind her; all alive, all accounted for. She’s about to tell him how relieved she is – even though she suspects the hug was telling enough – when she hears a loud, rather rude, cough.

“I’d like to use the doorway, thank you.” Jurian tells them pointedly.

Lucien rolls his eyes but does move out of the way to let him pass. When no one follows, Elain frowns and sticks her head out the door. Her heart sinks when she finds only an empty courtyard, but Lucien waves off her concerns before she could voice them.

“Azriel is alright. He needed to call on Rhysand for aid and returned home to give a proper report. He’ll be back in the morning. With the rest of the Night Court, unfortunately.”

“How are the villagers?” Nesta asks, voice a little scratchy from disuse.

“The casualties are minimal.” Jurian tells her “Thanks to the early warning we got – and Azriel’s surveillance – we had a better idea where the hounds would strike. We could intercept most of them before they could even break into the towns proper.”

“How many?” Nesta presses. Jurian and Lucien exchange looks.

“Five dead in your village and eleven wounded, which surprisingly includes the mayor who found it in himself to try and fight the monsters.” Lucien replies. “But unless his wife takes the chance to kill him in his sleep, even he should make it through.”

“Wouldn’t blame her.” Jurian mutters and then winces, shifting his weight around to a different foot. Vassa’s attention zeroes in on the blood on his pant-leg and Jurian already raises arms in surrender. “It’s just a scratch.”

“It doesn’t look like a scratch to me.”

Jurian ignores the frosty remark. He walks over to her, a little stiffly, and holds out a grimy hand to the unmoving queen. “Come on. I have an appointment to keep.”

“Are you quite serious?” Vassa asks, eyes narrowed at the outstretched hand like it offends her. “Absolutely not. We’re getting your wound checked and cleaned and then you’re going to bed.”

“Out of the question.” Jurian protests with just as much steel. “I promised you that I would never let you face the dawn alone and I don’t intend to break my word now.”

“Don’t be so mulishly stubborn! You need rest and I am perfectly capable of spending a single night on my own.”

“Has it occurred to you, your majesty, that I don’t want you to?”

Vassa’s eyes flash and then… “Fine.”

And for one single moment Jurian utterly flounders. “What?”

“I said ‘fine’, Jurian. I’ll climb into your bed and risk setting you and your sheets on fire come morning if that’s what it takes for you to get a proper rest.”

Jurian lets out a warbled string of syllables that may mean something in a different language, the language of a man being tortured, before throwing his hands up in defeat.

“You’ll be the death of me one day.” he mutters and stalks off. From the tiny, satisfied twitch of Vassa’s lips, Elain gets the feeling she knows she’s won. Vassa orders Lucien to take care of himself too, bids them all goodbye, and follows after the general.

Eris watches them pass by, like a man at a music hall waiting out if there’s an encore before he turns to Lucien. “The rest of the circus is coming tomorrow?”

Lucien’s expression shutters, the amusement leaking away in an instant. “Yes, they are. Apparently, they want to discuss what to do with Koschei. Actually, I have wondered how much you’re willing to let them know – and Vassa too.”

“How sweet of you to worry. But no need to wonder: I’ll stick around. Spare everyone the trouble of filling me in on the details.” from the sharpness of Eris’ smile, Elain gets the impression he rather means save everyone the trouble of lying to him. But he goes on, airily: “Besides, there is still the matter of my soldiers to settle. Someone has to ensure they remain on the agenda.”

“Of course.” Lucien shoots back, just as wry. “Pick whichever room you like.”

“I intend to!”

And with that Eris walks away. Nesta looks at his retreating back with a peculiar expression and Elain wonders if something had happened while they were fighting the hounds. But then Nesta offers one last “I’m glad you all survived.” and she turns on her heels and leaves too.

“The others have the right idea.” Lucien tells her. “We should get some rest. It will be a long day tomorrow.”

Elain shakes her head. “I think I should check on Tamlin first. He’s out patrolling the grounds.” hopefully, that’s where he is she doesn’t add.

“Cauldron boil me, why is he so…” Lucien mutters but stops when he catches Elain’s expression. “Elain, care to explain to me why Tamlin thinks it’s necessary to patrol the grounds?”

“A few hounds got into the manor. None of us got hurt!” she clarifies at the shocked look on his face. “It just occurred to me that we forgot to mention it.”

“Forgot to… how can you even forget you were attacked?” he sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Elain Archeron, you’re going to cause me to age prematurely. Not even half a millennia old and I’m going to have gray hairs.”

It was terrifying in the moment, when the glass broke and that thing climbed through. It fills Elain with no small amount of shame how quickly she froze, how Vassa had to drag her back to safety before Tamlin came roaring out, alerted by her scream. But it had gone and passed and they’re all alright and she doesn’t want Lucien to worry about what might have been but ultimately wasn’t.

So Elain gives him a truly serene and beatific smile. “You would still look rather dashing, gray hair or no.”

Humor sparks in Lucien’s gaze. “Are you trying to flatter me into distraction?”

“Of course not.” Elain replies sunnily. “Unless it’s working.”

“Oh, the attempt is pathetically obvious.” Lucien tells her, but then he leans in close, like a confidant whispering secrets except she knows that’s not what he’s doing. Or more accurately that’s not why he’s doing it. “But lucky for you, I appreciate the cheek.”

Elain can’t help feeling a little flustered at the proximity and Lucien absolutely notices, if his smirk is anything to go by. Fine. It’s fine. She may have lost the battle, but she did win the war because he, at least, is successfully distracted from their previous topic all the same.

“You should rest. Leave Tamlin to me. I will try to talk some sense into him. If that’s even possible.”

“Are you truly unhurt?” Elain asks. Lucien only gives her a grin and places a hand on his heart.

“On my honor as an unrepentant scoundrel, the moment I so much as get a paper-cut I will rush to my fair lady to tend to my wounds.”

That does earn a surprised peal of laughter from Elain. “See that you do. Good luck and good night.”

“Sweet dreams Elain.”

With one last look at Lucien, Elain and slips away.

Nesta knows she wouldn’t be able to sleep, not even if she tried to. She’s too restless, too keyed up. If she slept, she’d only have nightmares and likely bring the house down. She waits instead, waits until the house quiets down, and then throws a robe over her nightgown and slips out of the room. She can’t fix her magic. But there’s one problem she can settle and she intends to.

She doesn’t know precisely where Eris decided to stay for the night but she knows where everyone else’s rooms are. From there on, it’s just trying to rely on her Fae senses and throwing open random doors for the third time that day.

She finds Eris in the moth-eaten west wing, away from everyone else. He must have used magic to clean up a little, because Nesta no longer feels like sneezing the moment the doors open. But she does feel like choking a little.

Eris is sitting on the bed, his shirt discarded beside him. At the sound of the door opening, he pauses in his ministrations to clean a fresh-looking wound above his hip. Nesta’s mouth falls open a little dumbly. Eris arches an eyebrow, unbothered.

“That’s why people tend to knock.”

Nesta’s mouth snaps closed in an instant. “I didn’t know you got injured.”

“You wouldn’t. You were rather distracted at the moment.”

Nesta’s stomach turns leaden. Yes. Distracted. Distracted by losing control of her death magic and nearly killing them all. She wants to thank him for snapping her out of it, wants to lash out at him because he’s seen her at her most vulnerable. She does neither of those in the end, settling instead on asking the question that bothered her all throughout the night.

“What did you tell Tamlin?”

Eris hums, annoyingly unperturbed. “To use his oh so powerful High Lord magic and fix the damage the hounds caused? Why? Did you enjoy the draft?”

“I meant,” she grits out “what did you tell him about my powers?”

“Nothing at all.” Eris cocks his head to the side, studying her with dawning interest. And delight. Oh gods, no. “I didn’t realize this was such a precious secret, Nesta. How interesting.”

Nesta’s fingers curl into a fist. Fuck. She didn’t consider that she would play her hand this badly by confronting him. Threats are already on the tip of her tongue when Eris lazily waves a hand in the air. “Don’t look so sour, my dear. I’d much rather buy your goodwill than theirs. I won’t tell anyone about this little… mishap.”

Nesta feels her defensive anger fizzle out, only for suspicion to rise in its place. “Why not?”

“Why would I? You’d be a far better ally, don’t you agree?”

“Because of my power?”

Eris makes a good show of pretending to consider it, like the thought never crossed his mind before. Nesta doesn’t buy that for a single second. “In part, certainly. But I was sincere when I told you I could hardly forget your display at the meeting of the High Lords. You stood up and you made them listen. All of them, even my father. Do you even understand how impressive that truly was?” he shakes his head. “You were wasted at the Night Court. Absolutely wasted.”

Nesta’s throat suddenly feels very dry. That small victory was quickly overshadowed by the destruction of the Wall. It hasn’t occurred to Nesta to feel pride about her actions. She did what she had to. No one else thought much of it anyway. She stays silent, unsure as to what she should say to that. Eris doesn’t mind that either: he picks up the rag that once might have been part of a sheet and continues cleaning his wound.

“You know,” Eris starts, not even looking towards her “unless you want to erupt like that again, I suggest you start training.”

Nesta’s body locks up. “No.”

“I don’t know what silver flame you wield, Nesta dear, but it’s obvious you’re not in control. Power like this, it needs a release or it will burn you up from the inside. I’m a High Lord’s heir and even I could barely hold out against it for a mere minute; not everyone will be so lucky.”

His tone is pointed and Nesta knows without needing to say it, that he means Elain in particular. She grits her teeth. He’s not wrong about her power eating her up, not at all. She needed it, the drinks, the sex, the music, all of it, to push down this wretched magic inside of her. And unnervingly, now that it has escaped, her mind is calm in a way it hasn’t been for a while.

“If you don’t want to ask the others for help,” Eris continues “I can train you too.”

“You?”

“I’ve grown up with six fire-wielding younger brothers. If there’s anyone skilled enough to avoid being burnt to crisp by unpredictable outbursts, it’s going to be me.”

Nesta wants to refuse, point blank. She isn’t even sure how much she can trust Eris (her gut clearly saying as little as possible) let alone how wise it would be to call on her power willingly. Even so, the idea of being trained by Lucien or, gods forbid, Feyre sounds so abominable that Eris rises in the ranks by process of elimination. If she must train, there could be worse options.

“You don’t have to decide now you know.” Eris teases and the rag in his hand turns clean. “I can practically hear you overthinking.”

He begins to wrap the cloth around his wound as a makeshift bandage. Nesta briefly wonders if she should offer her help as a courtesy, but he seems to handle it with surprising ease. Eris clicks his tongue.

“Before you tearfully ask, yes, I’m fine, the wound was shallow, it barely even stings.”

“I wasn’t going to – ” Nesta begins but freezes as Eris turns slightly to retrieve his shirt. “Wait.”

She crosses the room in two short strides, and, interestingly, when she grabs Eris’ shoulder to turn him around properly, he obliges. Nesta sucks in a sharp breath. She didn’t want to linger on his bare chest, but it was hard to miss the faint outline of scars littering it. But his back… these are no wounds of battle.

Nesta sits down on the bed beside him, just staring in mute silence at all of it. She recognizes the signs of a whipping, having seen them enough on people rescued from Hybern’s war camps. But some of these weren’t ordinary whips, the skin puckered and burned at the edges. Some look older while some… Nesta blanches. Some of those look barely healed.

Faeries are supposed to heal quick, unless the wounds are grave, or something impedes the healing process. That these wounds scarred, the sheer amount of them… “Who did this to you?”

Eris turns his head to look back at her. There’s a levity in his face still, but twisted, darker. When he speaks, his crooning voice is lower too. “Who do you think?”

Nesta looks away. She suspected, really, the moment she saw those scars. Eris is the heir of the Autumn Court. There are precious few who could inflict such torture on him, for over such a long time. The faint scar near her thumb aches in sympathy. She knows, of course she knows that family isn’t always kind or even safe. But this is still… A lot to process.

“Why?” she asks, voice quiet. Eris hums.

“Builds character. Cultivates terror. The reasoning depends on his mood, really.” he says eventually. “He lets them heal, most of the time. The ones you’re looking at are reminders. Punishments for some grand crime of mine. I’d say half of those are from the Jesminda incident alone.”

“The Jesminda incident?”

“You haven’t heard? Curious. One of our dimwitted brothers ratted out that Lucien had a lesser fae lover to our darling father. He had her summarily executed of course. I refused to participate in the bloodbath. Hence the reprimand.” Eris audibly sneers. “If they went after Lucien directly, that I could understand. This accursed blood feud is between us. They shouldn’t have dragged that girl into it just because she had poor taste in males.”

Nesta swallows, taking in the harsh words and the even harsher reality behind them. For the first time, she wonders just how much Eris is risking even being here.

“And these?” she asks, very lightly tracing one of the fresher scars. Eris stiffens for a moment before relaxing; either the skin is still tender, or he is bothered by the frigidity of Nesta’s touch. Perhaps both. She hastily removes her hand either way.

“Those.” Eris takes a deep breath. “I may have questioned my father about the strange behavior of my soldiers, the ones that disappeared. Officially, the lesson was that I shouldn’t question his wisdom ever again, but I think I simply caught him in one of his worse moods. I did manage to learn that he isn’t as confident in this alliance as he seems, so it wasn’t a total loss.”

The more she learns about this male, the less he seems to make sense. But if she ever wants to untangle the knot that makes up Eris there’s one story she really needs to get straight. A very important one. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You’ve asked several already and I very courteously deigned to answer them too.”

Nesta’s lips thin for a moment, but she forces her irritation down. What she is about to ask will be, after all, irritating for him too. “What really happened with Mor?”

Eris groans, loudly and dramatically, and falls back on the bed, eyes to the ceiling. “Why are you all so obsessed with that female? I swear to the Mother, it’s unbelievable. It’s been centuries. Am I always going to have to beg and bow to justify things I did at eighteen?”

Nesta is a little surprised to learn that Eris was just as young as Mor at the time of their doomed engagement. The way they’ve been making it sound, she would have expected him to be older somehow. She also can’t help the sharp pang that goes through her at his words either.

“Based on personal experience?” she says bitterly. “I would say yes.”

“Fantastic.”

Nesta gingerly lowers herself to lie on her back beside Eris, and the male watches her movements a little warily. She knows what the Night Court believes, but she also knows that they’re quick to pass judgment and slow to reconsider. She’s been reduced to Feyre’s wicked stepsister since before they’ve even met her and no matter what she has or hasn’t done, this will not change. She wants to hear Eris’ side of the story. Wants to decide what she believes for herself.

“Tell me.”

Eris rolls his eyes. “What do you think I should have done? Mor clearly wanted the engagement broken off, I broke it off. I didn’t expect her family to brutalize her and throw her at my mercy. That, perhaps, was an oversight on my part and one that I regret. But after that… If I was stupid enough to help and claim her, my father would have killed her, without hesitation. This is what he does to me, Nesta, and I’m his favorite.” he spits the word, and there’s so much anger and pain behind it. Anger and pain that Nesta understands.

She remembers crying to her mother, hands bleeding, begging her to talk to Grandmamma, that she’ll be better, she promises, she’ll be better, if only she makes it stop. Remembers her mother’s stern face, as she wiped the tears off.

“It’s unbecoming of a lady to bawl like a common peasant.” she chided. Nesta’s lips had quivered, but she tried to hold back her tears. Seeing her efforts, her mother gave her a small smile of approval and kissed her cheek. “We’re only so hard on you because we love you Nesta. None of your sisters have your potential, you understand? Potential like yours needs to be… nurtured. One day, you’ll realize Grandmamma is only doing what’s best for you.”

“If he does this to me,” Eris repeats, unaware of Nesta’s lurching stomach “what do you think he would have done to the girl who publicly humiliated him? She refused my hand and slept with an Illyrian bastard of all – oh don’t look so scandalized. You can’t honestly believe Mor didn’t mean that as an insult and that my father didn’t take it as such. He was livid. And even so, I offered Mor a choice to decide if she wanted to stay in Autumn, to decide which death she’d prefer courting. She made her choice and deep down, I think she knows that too.”

Nesta fixes him with a long look, trying to figure out if he is lying, comparing his story to the one she was told by Feyre’s new friends. It’s a little unsettling to find that she can’t find an outright contradiction. She can’t ever know what was in Eris’ heart in the moment but – privately, she has to concede she cannot find an easy solution either.

“Now, I’m not going to pretend I would have been inconsolable if she had died,” Eris huffs a hollow laugh “but you have to admit, I wasn’t spoiled for options. And if you’re about to have the audacity and tell me that I could have been nicer about it then I suggest you ask your baby sister just how nice her mate was Under the Mountain.”

Nesta was there at the High Lords’ meeting. She knows enough about Under the Mountain to have an inkling as to what he means. “Then why let everyone think the worst of you?”

“Because I don’t care enough about the Night Court’s opinion to correct them.”

“But you care for mine?”

Eris shrugs, a grin blooming on his face. “Perhaps.”

Nesta shakes her head, disbelieving. Silence descends on them and with each passing moment she is keenly aware she is overstaying her welcome. Her fingers curl into the sheet, and she grips it tight. It’s a different sort of need, a different desperation. It’s not her power clawing at her to satiate it, it’s just her, rattled after everything that happened tonight, rattled at the idea of retreating back to the solitude of her own room. She doesn’t want to be alone, not now.

But there’s no loud chatter around her, no drunken fool leaning a little too close, promising to show her a good time. There’s just her and Eris and a bed large enough for two. And maybe that makes it better or maybe it makes it worse, but something in her gut clings to the barest thread of rapport they’ve formed. It will be gone in the morning anyway. Why not hold onto it while it lasts?

Nesta’s eyes rove over Eris’ form languidly. She didn’t particularly care to have a type in the taverns. Males came and expressed their interest and Nesta either gave them a verbal lashing brutal enough to send them running with their tails between their legs or she allowed their advances with half-hearted amusement, sometimes outright boredom. But Eris isn’t like any of them. She tries to imagine him in the seedy, loud establishments she favored and can practically see him sneer. Can practically see the hostile looks he would receive just by entering. And yet. If he sat down next to her, a complete stranger, he might have been exactly the sort of person she would have said yes to.

He’s not so much sheer muscle, but he’s still lean, lithe. His hair falls in a messy cascade as he props up his head to look at her, something knowing in those piercing amber eyes. He looks haughty and a little wicked, the kind of love interest that never gets the girl in the books she so adores.

“Now where has your mind slipped off to, Nesta Archeron?” he asks, teasing, challenging. He knows, but then again, Nesta hasn’t made a secret of her study of him. She wanted him to see her looking. Wanted him to see her approving. She flashes him a sharp-edged smile.

“The gutter.”

Eris’ eyes shine with humor. “Is that so?”

“I’m just not sure of my choice of partner yet.” Nesta admits idly. “He has a terrible reputation for being a snake. But so do I.”

“You don’t want me, Nesta dear; you just want to spite the Night Court.”

Eris seems more amused than anything by her offer. He isn’t taking it seriously at all and that irks her. Fine. She’ll just have to make him then. Nesta feels something dangerously close to nerves settle in her stomach as she moves closer and lazily traces a finger across his jawline. His skin is warm, incredibly warm, his gaze on her unfaltering.

“I want a distraction.” she says evenly, eyes flickering to his lips. “I want to forget. I want you to touch me until I can’t think about anything else but you. I want to drown in you instead of the fucking Cauldron. Don’t you want it too? To stop hurting for just one moment?”

Eris’ gaze darkens a little. Nesta lets her hand fall to his neck instead, fingers resting over his pulse.

“You don’t want me, Nesta.” he repeats, but this time it sounds less an argument and more a warning.

And he’s right. She doesn’t want him, but she could. For one night, she could. She wants to want him so much it hurts. She wants to love and be loved like in her books, passionate and true, but that’s not for her, not really. All she has is this, beautiful lies and stolen moments and gods damn her she’ll take what she can get.

“Make me.” she whispers. “Make me want you.”

Quicker than a viper striking, Eris claims her lips as his own. Nesta smothers a small, surprised noise and lets her body take over. She knows this routine, knows it enough to be able to sink into the familiarity of it, barely conscious of what her hands are doing.

Eris rolls them over and Nesta lets him do that too, lets his legs straddle her hips and pin her to place. They look at each other for a long moment, basking in the half second where the glass hits the ground but doesn’t yet shatter. And then he brushes the hair out of her face. And it’s so heartbreakingly gentle that Nesta feels herself shiver, her heart racing for the first time. It’s a lie, it’s a lie – but she has to wonder if she’s the only one who desperately wants to believe in it.

Nesta doesn’t want to linger in this terrible tenderness and arches up for another bruising kiss. This time, she feels it, Eris’ soft laughter against her lips, her hands on the back of his neck as she tries to pull him closer somehow, clinging to him like they’re two people caught in a storm.

This is probably a bad idea, Nesta reflects between breaths, one that she may end up regretting come tomorrow. But for now, it’s the best idea she ever had too.

Chapter Text

When she wakes, Nesta is still warm even though she’s naked and one of them – probably Eris, she has always been a blanket hog – has kicked the blankets nearly all the way off of them. She’s also still inexplicably here, lying with Eris curled around her in a protective embrace, his breaths huffing at her nape.

The sun is gently filtering through the aged blinds, and, if Nesta concentrated hard enough, she might even be able to pick out movement in the slowly waking manor. She doesn’t know if the Night Court has arrived yet or not; she tries to tell herself that she doesn’t care either way.

She wants to get out of the bed if only to prove that last night’s diversion meant absolutely nothing to her, beyond being a means to an end. But she doesn’t think she can move without startling Eris awake and in the privacy of her mind Nesta can admit that she’s drowsy and that being held does actually feel just a little nice. So she allows herself exactly four more sickeningly indulgent seconds before she tries to leave.

Eris must be a very light, alert sleeper because the moment she so much as wriggles she feels him stirring behind her. His hands lower to idly trace lines on her stomach and Nesta is furiously not thinking about where else those hands had been (or where else they could be still). She rarely sleeps with the same person twice after all, lest they start to get unwelcome ideas. No matter how… enjoyable the night might have been, it would be colossally stupid to start anything with Eris especially.

“Good morning.” Eris murmurs into her neck, pressing a lazy kiss there before rolling away. Nesta lets out a breath. Good. Space is absolutely good right now.

“I was starting to wonder if you would ever wake.” Nesta shoots back. She sits up on the bed and tries to figure out where on earth she might have discarded her nightgown. She finds it in a heap, at the foot of the bed. Right next to her underthings. And Eris’.

“Oh, I did, several times.” Eris retorts with a smile, stretching like a cat. “But you looked cozy. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Mh-hm.”

Nesta walks round the bed and gathers her clothes. Eris watches her go without making a single move to get dressed himself. Nesta quickly and matter-of-factly pulls her nightgown back on (refusing to satisfy the part of her that wonders if Eris is watching, still) and is ready to leave without another word, but Eris has different ideas. “Nesta?”

“Yes?” she turns around. It would be inaccurate to claim that Eris looks amused, but it’s obviously a very near thing.

“Do you want me to cast a cleaning enchantment on you or would you like to shower? Assuming that is, you don’t want to announce having slept with me to everyone.”

Nesta freezes. The intrusive power of enhanced faerie senses; she doesn’t know if she’ll ever stop being unsettled by it. It’s not anyone’s business what she does, but she really wouldn’t have liked to walk into that situation blind. Even if the scandalized look on Feyre’s face would have made a stunning painting.

“I’ll take a shower.” Nesta announces. She picks up Eris’ clothes and throws it at the male’s chest. Eris only barks a laugh, a startled but surprisingly genuine thing. “Get dressed.”

Elain has, much to her own surprise, slept in a bit. She wakes to noises coming from the hall and, when she hastily gets dressed and goes to investigate, she discovers Lucien and Jurian hauling chairs out of the dining room, preparing for the discussion ahead. Elain flits around, helping them rearrange the parlor to – hopefully, depending on the size of her entourage – accommodate Feyre and her Court.

She doesn’t know what to expect from this meeting, but, coward that she is, the moment the wards announce their guests, Elain quickly swallows down the last bites of her breakfast and announces that she’ll fetch Nesta before anyone could get a word in. She pauses at Nesta’s door, ears straining to catch snippets of the hustle and bustle at the entrance. She catches a few overly polite exchanges then a tense, stilted quiet descends in which even the scraping of chairs drowns out the whispered words. Elain takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

Nesta calls out for her to enter. When she does, Nesta spares a single glance towards her and then focuses on finishing up her braids once more. “I thought I felt the joy being sucked from the manor. They’re here, aren’t they.”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” she touches her hair, satisfied, then stands “Let’s get this over with.”

After the impromptu reorganization the parlor is neatly split in two. On one side, Jurian is setting up a strange metal contraption near an armchair that is meant to serve as a perch for an unenthusiastic Vassa. Next them is the large sofa where Lucien sits with a stony and grim Tamlin. Elain joins them but Nesta doesn’t: instead of claiming one of the remaining seats she stubbornly moves to stand at the wall behind them.

Opposite them is the Inner Circle of the Night Court, nearly in its totality. Only Mor - off on a diplomatic mission as far as Elain knows - is missing. And only on the face of Azriel, does Elain see something resembling friendliness. She smiles back at him gratefully.

When she tries to make eye contact with Feyre, her younger sister’s gaze flits away immediately.

“I thought you told me Eris would be here too.” Rhys points out coolly. His hand rests on Feyre’s knee, supporting his mate. Though he voiced displeasure about Eris, Elain can’t help but notice that Rhys’ attention returns periodically to Tamlin, as if the male was liable to attack at any moment. While the High Lord of Spring certainly looks unhappy, Elain doesn’t think he’s going to start anything. Or do anything at all, in truth. “Fashionably late?”

“It’s important to know how to make an entrance.” Eris declares, entering the room as if on cue. He ignores the ugly looks thrown at him by the Night Court and circles the sofa to – Elain turns around – choose to stand right beside Nesta. Nesta barely bats an eye at the action, or the statement they’re both making with it. That they’re apart from either group and proud of it.

“Let’s cut the pleasantries then.” Rhys says. “Azriel has explained the situation. Amren knows what the Trove is.”

She does? Elain’s mouth parts in surprise, looking towards the ancient being in the room. Amren looks… a little off. She is still haughty and cold, but there’s something in her that speaks to a bone-deep exhaustion.

“If by ‘know’ you mean she started retching the moment you brought it up…” Cassian mutters under his breath. It couldn’t be more obvious that Cassian is deeply unhappy to be back here and he does his best to not even look at either her or Nesta.

Amren glares at him.

“Overcoming thousands of years of magical compulsion to forget is apparently deeply uncomfortable, boy.” she bites out and while she is no longer as powerful as she once was, for a moment she’s every inch that frightful. “The Trove are objects of power Made by the Cauldron. None know who forged them, but whispers of them echoed even before I was trapped in the Prison. They each have terrible power. The Mask can raise the dead. Wear it and you may summon the dead to you, command them to march at your will. The Harp can open any door, physical or otherwise. Some say between worlds. And the Crown …

“The Crown can influence anyone, even piercing through the mightiest of mental shields. Its only flaw is that it requires close physical proximity to initially sink its claws into a victim’s mind. But wear the Crown, and you could make your enemies do your bidding. Could make a parent slaughter their child, aware of the horror but unable to stop themselves.”

“And Briallyn has the Crown.” Elain says. She turns back towards Eris and gives him a sympathetic look. “I think… I think we know what might have happened to your soldiers.”

Eris’s expression is grave as he nods back at her.

“And we also know why Koschei wants the Harp so badly.” Jurian says, glancing at the agitated Vassa next to him who chirps in assent. “Opening any door? Physical or otherwise? That asshole wants to escape.”

“So we just have to find the objects of the Trove before he does.” Feyre declares, stubbornly determined. Nesta makes a small noise in her throat, which immediately draws a withering glare from both Feyre and Rhys.

“How do you propose tracking down magical objects that were lost for millennia that Amren vomited her guts out over just remembering?” Nesta challenges. “After what happened with the Cauldron, I hope you’re not going to suggest scrying for them.”

Elain feels a deep shudder run down her spine at the reminder. Feyre’s eyes narrow but Lucien jumps in before she can offer a retort.

“We may not have to resort to that just yet.” he says quickly. “If Eris’ soldiers are enthralled by Briallyn, then tracking them down in the Bog of Oorid might lead us right to it.”

“There’s also the issue of the villages.” Jurian adds. “Letting them get mauled to death won’t earn you any favors when you get off your asses to reforge the Treaty, but it’s obvious Tamlin doesn’t have the power to hold Spring on his own.”

Tamlin says nothing, doesn’t even so much as twitch at that remark.

Rhys only waves the concern off. “We’ll station some of our forces there. That’s hardly an issue.”

Jurian snorts loud enough to make Elain flinch.

“I hate to say this, but Amarantha’s jewellery has a point.” Eris says slowly “My father is very much all for the propaganda that you wish to become High King Rhysand, there’s absolutely no need to lend credence to his words.”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Cassian snaps. “So our forces are only useful when they die on your beck and call? We’re not your dogs to be dismissed when you no longer need us.”

“Cassian.” one word. Only his name from Nesta’s lips, spoken with such ice is enough to halt Cassian’s tirade entirely. Elain looks back at her sister and finds her straight-backed, certain. A little vicious too. “Think for one moment. No matter the cause it was your High Lady that destroyed the Spring Court. What do you think the rest of the Prythian will assume if you suddenly move in with soldiers?”

“It doesn’t matter what they believe.” Feyre argues, indignant. “We will do what’s right anyway.”

“Enough.” Lucien commands. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t have to. His voice carries enough authoritative menace to instantly silence the whole room and kill the brewing, petty argument. Elain blinks at him, surprised and frankly rather impressed. “We know and appreciate everything you have done for us. Perhaps the best course of action would be to call another meeting of the High Lords. Inform them of the situation. Request aid on Spring’s behalf.” here looks to Tamlin, who rumbles an assent. “It doesn’t matter if only Night offers aid afterwards, but it would set the record straight. Likely earn you some goodwill on your charity too.”

“And, while you’re there, you could tell Helion to get his ass over here.” Jurian grumbles and Vassa clucks at him in reprimand. “What? We’ve written ahead first. The matter of the wards should clearly be prioritized now, your majesty.”

“Their plan has merit. Distracting the High Lords would give us a chance to investigate our more untrustworthy allies too.” Azriel says pointedly, his meaning clear: it would give both him and Eris time to snoop around.

Rhys weighs the matter carefully. His and Feyre’s eyes go distant in the way they usually do when they’re speaking mind to mind. Displeasure ripples across Feyre’s features, followed by acquiescence.

“I will call for a meeting.” Rhys declares. “Cassian and Azriel can check out the Bog of Oorid, but if any of the Trove is really there we will need assistance. Perhaps, as with the Cauldron, like will call to like.”

His star-flecked eyes rove over first her then Nesta. Nesta looks furious and even Eris’ casual posture drops, though for a different reason.

“No chance in hell.” he protests. “I will not leave the lives of my soldiers in your hands. I don’t trust you not to slaughter them on sight.”

“Why?” Cassian taunts, quickly realizing he’s gained the upper hand. Eris cannot be seen with them, not if there’s a chance the soldiers would report back to Briallyn. This is a fight he cannot win and they both know it. “Because we’re mindless brutes?”

“That’s exactly right.”

“The terrain of the bog is treacherous.” Rhys points out, flicking invisible dust from his jacket, projecting an aura of unbothered grace. “It is far safer to investigate for those with wings, and you don’t actually have a lot of options in that regard. But feel free to go traverse the bog alone. I hear drowning is an unpleasant way to die.”

Nesta places a hand on Eris’ chest and gently pushes him backwards. “Overgrown children, the lot of you. I’ll go. I’ve had more practice with tracking than Elain anyway. I’ll keep them from killing your soldiers, if it can be avoided.”

Nesta catches Eris’ eyes and gives him a meaningful look. To Elain’s surprise the male’s shoulders sag and he shrugs as if to say, ‘fine’. Rhys smiles a feline, smug smile.

“Excellent, that’s settled then. Nesta, Cass, Az, you go to the Bog of Oorid. If you can bring Eris’ soldiers back to Night, we’ll see to breaking the Crown’s hold on them.”

The meeting unofficially adjourned, the Night Court begins to disperse, Amren scurrying off first. Hoping to catch Feyre, Elain all but jumps from her seat to stand in her way.

“Could I talk to you for a bit Feyre?” she tries, ignoring the wary look Rhys throws her way. Feyre glances at her sister, then her mate. She looks so lost and torn that Elain feels her heart twinge.

“I got your letter.” Feyre starts, then exhales loudly. “And I’ve been thinking, but it’s just…”

“Not the right time.” Rhys cuts in and kisses Feyre on the cheek. Feyre melts into the touch, sinking into his safety and support.

Elain swallows. “But you’ll come back?”

Feyre’s eyes widen a touch, before her whole face softens. “I will, I think. After I… I will.”

Rhys gives Elain one last lingering look, then escorts her sister out of the manor. Elain can’t help being a little disappointed as she watches them go. She tries to push it down as best she can, forcing on a smile even if no one is watching. She turns around to look for Nesta and finds her in a deep conversation with Eris. He says something to her that has Nesta give him a deadpan look, followed by her marching away.

“Write to me!” Eris calls after her, as he starts towards the exit too.

Nesta doesn’t even look back at him. “I will not!”

There’s a smile on Eris’ face when he passes them by. Cassian, on the other hand, seems both bewildered and mildly frustrated as he first stares after the male then blurts out: “What the fuck was that?”

Elain’s expression hardens. She points an accusing finger towards Cassian. “Be nice. Nesta has been through a lot recently and I don’t want you to take your mood out on her.”

“Me?” Cassian blinks, going near cross-eyed as he tries to focus on the female half his size threatening him. Azriel snickers. “What makes you think I would do anything?”

“Because you look ready to explode, brother.” Azriel explains, then looks to Elain. “I’ll try to stop them from tearing each other apart.”

“Thank you.” Elain replies primly. Cassian still only gawks, which draws another smirk from Azriel.

When Nesta returns in a pale blue, ruffled summer dress that looks a bit looser than the previous one she has worn, with a higher hemline – no doubt picked for ease of movement - Cassian eyes her dubiously. “Are you seriously going to one of the most dangerous places in Prythian wearing that?”

“Is there a problem?” Nesta asks, defiant.

“There’s no way you can defend yourself in that, Nes.”

Elain shoots a warning look towards Cassian that he all but ignores, fixated on the flash of pure anger flitting across Nesta’s features at the nickname. Then her sister smiles, acid sweet. “Why would I need to? Can’t two grown Illyrian warriors handle the fighting?”

“But –”

“What Cass means,” Azriel cuts in “is to ask if you’re ready to go.”

Nesta gives Cassian one last cold once over and offers Azriel her hand. When she notices Elain lingering by, she sighs. “Whatever you want to say, say it.”

“Good luck and stay safe.”

Nesta’s eyes widen and then narrow in suspicion. But that’s truly all she wanted to say. Elain knows why she is the one to stay behind, and it makes sense. She hates Nesta plunging herself into danger, but that also makes sense. There’s nothing else to it.

When they’ve winnowed away, Lucien only shakes his head. “I might have made comments when Jurian told me he needed me to winnow him all over towns, but that sounds suddenly so much more appealing than trying to keep those two from murdering one another. I pity Azriel.”

Alone in the manor and lacking anything better to do, Elain gathers her gardening tools. Her heart beats a little quicker when she spots the enchanted gloves Lucien gifted her and – feeling irrationally daring about it – she makes a point of putting them on.

She finds Tamlin sitting in the grass, the whole garden lit up in vibrant colors, spring flowers in new bloom clustering around him, some outright trying to clamber into his lap. He says nothing at her arrival, keeping his eyes closed and basking in the sun.

“It’s nice to see the garden thriving.” she remarks. Tamlin snorts bitterly.

“My one and only contribution.”

“Well, maybe so far. The day has just begun.” Elain says with cheer. She settles down beside the now beautifully blood red rose bush and begins meticulously getting rid of the weeds. She starts chattering about inane things, commentating her process, occasionally asking general gardening tips from Tamlin even about things that she knows, just to keep him with her. He doesn’t actually offer any comments of his own volition yet, but he does answer all her questions which isn’t so bad either.

She knows the exact moment Lucien returns, the exact moment he’s close enough for the bond to hum pleasantly, which is how she also knows that he is lurking. Elain lets him get away with it for a while, then asks, lilting and all innocent. “Do you have any embarrassing stories about Lucien?”

Tamlin smothers a small chuckle. “Several, in fact.”

“Which you will take to your grave.” Lucien replies easily. He looks utterly unbothered by both Elain’s brilliantly triumphant grin and the fact that he’d been caught. He strides over to slump down into the grass next to them and closes his eyes. “Tam, remember when you were the responsible one? I miss that. I miss that so much.”

“You told me just last night that I have always been, I quote, a ‘self-sacrificing idiot’.”

Lucien’s only response is a long-suffering groan. He may not be able to see it, but Elain scoots closer anyway.

“Did something happen in the villages?” she asks. Lucien raises a hand and does a weird wiggly gesture that probably means to say ‘not really’.

“I’m just tired of being the bigger person. Some people are insufferable even in the face of tragedy and I wish I didn’t have to stop Jurian from punching them.”

When Elain asks if he wants to talk about it, his reply is another discontented noise and a mumbled “No.” Elain doesn’t know how to help with that particular issue just now, but there’s something she may be able to do for that troubled expression. She picks up one of the discarded weeds and leans close, as stealthily as she can, to tickle Lucien’s face with the stem of the plant. He sputters and starts, staring at her with wide eyes. Elain giggles.

“What was that?” Lucien asks, his words laced with incredulous laughter.

“You were brooding.” Elain answers. She tries to dart in again but Lucien expects it this time and arrests her wrist before she manages. His eyes are drawn to the gloves and Elain’s smile widens a touch. He noticed. Good.

Lucien flashes her a smug grin. “Lovely gloves.”

“Aren’t they just?”

For a split second, Elain could swear Lucien almost, well, glows. It’s an embarrassing thought that she tries to banish as quickly as it came. It’s bad enough that he’s so incredibly beautiful - Elain does not need to wax poetic like that, even in her head. A little flushed, she sits back down. As she does, she notices Tamlin watching them with a curious, considering expression.

A loud noise comes just then, something thumping on the ground and… whinnying. While she is rather perplexed, neither Lucien nor Tamlin seem to share her confusion and start towards the source of the noise. When Elain too sees what caused the commotion she gasps loudly. The front door opens but she barely hears it, so lost in the beauty of the majestic animal before her. The pegasus, for surely it must be a pegasus of myth, is jet-black like the night sky. Its wings are massive, coat sparkling and soft even to look at.

The male clambering from the back of the creature is no less magnificent. He is beautiful in an unearthly way, but also beautiful in a distinctly familiar way, though Elain can’t put her finger on why that is. When his eyes alight on her, he grins.

“You must be Elain Archeron! A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. The stories simply don’t do you justice.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

“Helion.” Lucien greets him too, eying the High Lord a little cautiously. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Rhysand insisted that it was urgent.” Helion says, then strokes down the fur of his pegasus. “He also insisted I don’t frighten the locals with too much… spectacle.”

”Because a pegasus is the height of subtlety.” Lucien murmurs under his breath, which earns a small, barely there huff from Tamlin.

“A passable compromise.” Helion counters loftily. When he spots Jurian circled by Vassa, his expression turns suitably solemn. “I’m sorry we couldn’t break your curse, your majesty.”

Vassa chirps but Jurian only gives a blank look to the High Lord. “Then fix what you can.”

Helion starts to look around, waving his hands, as if parting threads in the air. His face goes from curious to a little puzzled then impressed, in the span of a few seconds.

“The spellwork is well-done.” he muses aloud. “The technique is unrefined, yes, but the complexity of the detection wards… you did this then, Emissary Lucien?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. Good job.” he studies Lucien for a moment more and Elain wouldn’t be surprised if he was deliberating whisking him away to Day to refine his talents. But then he claps his hands. “I can absolutely improve the wards to prevent entrance to those not keyed in or specifically invited in. Warding an entire manor to be so airtight will take a while, so get comfortable. Before I forget though…”

Then he removes the satchel hanging from his shoulder and throws it to Lucien, who catches it deftly, but with an arched brow that invites elaboration.

“Compensation for not being able to come sooner.” Helion says with humor. “I was held up by Winter and Summer requesting lore-assistance with strange beasts that, based on what Rhys told me, may be a little familiar to you. We already scrounged up the information - marked and highlighted for your reading pleasure. I threw in a few books about the Cauldron as well, given the nature of all our issues. You’re very welcome.”

“Thank you.” Lucien replies graciously. Elain moves closer to peek inside: there are at least eight books in there, some thin and some massive. “We will make sure to study them. But we may need access to your libraries again.”

“Rhys already has people on it.” Helion smirks, shaking his head. “He’s never been so forthcoming with me in centuries. I’m starting to feel suspicious.”

“Likely he knew we’d tell you everything anyway.” Jurian butts in, throwing a meaningful glance at Elain. Elain harrumphs, hands on her hips.

“Well, someone should! How can you expect to solve anything if you don’t talk to each other? It’s nonsensical.”

Lucien raises his hands in playful surrender. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we do need another Archeron to shake up the status quo.”

“But you’re still skeptical about Eris.

“Immeasurably.”

She rolls her eyes, but her spirits are not dampened in the slightest. She can’t exactly tell why but… “Don’t worry. He’ll come through for us, I am certain.”

Elain sits outside in the courtyard, poring over one of the more unassuming books, surrounded by her fellow companions doing the same. Tamlin was a little uncertain in his place, until Jurian outright chucked a book at him and told him to start reading, a spectacle which made Lucien positively cackle.

They’ve all elected to stay outside, close to Helion, in case he requires assistance. But Helion seems far too engrossed in his work to even notice them. His skin glows, as if lit up from the inside, eyes tracing threads that Elain cannot see, fingers moving with grace and surety. No, she doubts he will need their help, but it’s nice to stay outside anyway.

Vassa was circling around them for a while, until Jurian decided to dramatically read his book aloud. She cawed at him with disapproval, but eventually perched on a stone nearby, listening intently.

Lucien quickly finds the marked passage about the hounds that attacked them. Death-hounds, hellhounds some sources call them, imbued with the essence of pure death. They were used by the Daglan as hunting dogs to chase down faeries and humans alike in a cruel practice called the Wild Hunt, back when they ruled over these lands. Some scholars consider them less a beast and more undead creatures, since unless fully incapacitated, they will not die. Wounds made by their claws and fangs heal slowly because the damage goes deeper than the flesh, temporarily injuring one’s magic too. But, as the book read by Tamlin corroborates, such creatures have not been seen in Prythian for thousands of years. Most likely, they have retreated to the Middle, as a host of other evil things have. Until now.

Jurian finds a few interesting pages about the importance of the Cauldron, theories surrounding its corruption and the ramifications it would have on the world if that were true. There are many treatises about that subject, but none offer the insight they crave.

Elain, meanwhile, has been busy reading religious texts and folk myths. They’re illuminating, to be sure, but not straightforwardly helpful, not yet. She flips through the book to the next marked page, mentally thanking whichever of Helion’s subjects had made such a thorough and easy to follow guide to these books.

Once, there was a Fair Lady and she was alone.

She had a magical Cauldron that could create things and as magic and life poured from it in its wake grew soil and grass and trees and lakes and mountains. She watched it drip, drip and a landscape filled to the brim with emptiness bloomed into being. She longed for noise, and drip, drip, the wind started blowing, she longed for life and birds took to the sky, and insects crawled around in the dirt. And so it went for years, all manner of creatures running wild in her new home.

But the Lady was lonely, for there was none such as her. She talked to the brooks and they babbled back in a language she couldn’t understand. She barked at the dogs, and they whined for they couldn’t understand her.

Eventually, she resigned herself to watch the Cauldron drip, drip, and spoke to no one. She walked around her glen, as if in trance, as if in a dream, as if she knew something grand was supposed to happen if she only waited for it.

Finally, others came. They fell from the sky like stars and they were different, yes, but so much like her too. He came too, with his siblings. He was handsome, cloaked in black like a vision of the darkest night come alive, his smiles sharp and wicked, his voice smooth and rich.

His siblings did not care for the Fair Lady, nor the other visitors. But he, this Dark Lord, he did. He stayed in her glen and talked with her day and night, spinning such lovely tales of his travels that the Lady couldn’t help but be enraptured. The Lady’s voice, once rough from disuse, was chirping and eager to tell him of her own days, of watching a world being born and unfurl like a flower petal.

He liked her Cauldron too, was endlessly fascinated by it. One day, he asked, in that soft croon of his: “Why only play warden to creation, sweet one? Have you never tried making something before?”

The Lady had not, but the idea seemed thrilling and dangerous all at once. With her Lord’s amused encouragement, she tilted the Cauldron back to rights and began to think. She’d create something beautiful, something lasting. Magical. A form began to take shape in the mist of the Cauldron, and, when she heard her Lord laugh happily, she added one more wish to it.

That their souls be tied with strings, so they’d never be alone, like she had been.

She tipped the Cauldron anew and water rich with the hues of every color began to flow out of it like a river. And so the faeries came into being.

Elated with the magnificence of her creation, the Lady was so content that when her Lord asked to use the Cauldron too she didn’t hesitate. His creations were much like hers, with souls burning bright and yet, they were unlike it too. Their lives short, so brutally short that it seemed cruel to send them off into existence.

“My heart,” the Lady asked the Lord. “why have you cursed those creatures so with fragile mortal bodies?”

“It was a kindness, love. Without knowing suffering, one can hardly know true joy. Only in the face of death does life gain meaning.”

In the wake of their meddling, the world seemed to ripple and change, as if it too, sensed death encroaching. The leaves of trees turned mottled and brown and fell to the ground.

But true worry only took root in her soul when the other visitors started taking notice of their creations. As the Fae and the humans saw their power and fell to their knees in awe and fear, the others enjoyed the praise, grew gluttonous on it. The Fair Lady felt her desperation rise and rise as the beings she and her Lord had crafted with such love in their heart were shackled by chains to hateful monsters.

Her Dark Lord was sullen too, pensive. Though she did not know, such conquest was poisoning his heart. For while the Lady felt the injustice out of her love for her children, he was covetous, slighted.

He made terrible beasts, vicious and hungry for blood to roam about the realm and terrorize his disloyal children and their false gods. But it was not enough to quell his rage. And so, in a fit, he took to a forge and crafted objects so dreadful that when he dipped them into the Cauldron, Making them, it bubbled and nearly spit them out.

When he presented them to his Fair Lady, she shrieked. “What manner of cruel things are these?”

“Why love, the instruments to defeat our enemies, they who have arrogantly usurped our throne!”

“Our throne? You’ve blasphemed against creation to rule?” the Lady asked, stricken. Then her anger came bubbling back. “Away with these awful things! We shall save our people without them!”

But as she cast the objects in the Cauldron the water sloshed to avoid even their mere touch. She gaped, now truly horror struck. Her Dark Lord seemed menacing for the first time since she had laid eyes on him, furious at her decision to disparage his gifts.

“I see now how easily you would turn me aside! What gratitude you show me, what kindness! Just as well; I shall take back what is mine without your help.”

He went back to his siblings then and they wrought such destruction the Fair Lady felt naught but overwhelming despair for days on end. Then she took out the dreadful trove of artefacts from the depths of her Cauldron. She could not Unmake them, but she could weave an enchantment around them to hide them from sight for all eternity.

As for her Lord… Perhaps she could do something similar.

She could not approach him, for he would not trust her again, and, in her heart of hearts, she could admit she feared the sight of him would make her falter from her duty in the end. But there was a Fae warrior, cunning and strong. The Lady had heard news of her defeat of her Lord’s sister and thus she started to plot. The warrior’s sword, mighty as it was, would not be enough, for her Lord was clever, far too clever to be vulnerable. Deceit and trickery needed to be made their allies as well. So the Lady made chains of unbreakable smoke, oily and dark and had presented them to the warrior with little fanfare, pretending she was no more than a gifted faerie priestess.

The Fair Lady knew when the manacles sunk around the wrists of her Lord. Knew it because she heard his heartbreaking howl all the way to their glen. He had known she had betrayed him, utterly and truly, and his heart had shattered as well as her own had.

And the Fair Lady collapsed to the ground and wept, wept until moss and lichen grew around her form, swallowing her whole.

Years had passed and only her Cauldron remained, bubbling and eager, and without a warden to guard it.

Elain stares at the page, a little startled by the abrupt and decidedly unhappy ending to the tale. It’s clearly a variant of a creation myth, but this is the first one she’s read where the Mother had a partner. A partner that, by all rights, seems to have been the creator of the Dread Trove. A partner that was chained by a Fae warrior. An uncomfortable idea starts to form in her head.

Could the text be alluding to Koschei?

“I think,” Elain says, then clears her throat. “I think I found a myth about the origins of the Dread Trove.”

She quickly summarizes the tale she has read. The others look thoughtful and a little unsettled when she mentions her suspicions about Koschei. Well. Jurian seems unruffled.

“There are small sects in Rask that favor dual-creation myths. They ascribe the creation of monsters and the evils of the world to some other entity in order to paint the Mother entirely benevolent.” Lucien says carefully, like he’s reciting a lesson he received too long ago. “But I haven’t heard this version before.”

“I have.” Tamlin rumbles, glancing towards Jurian who is already smirking knowingly. “It’s Hybern.”

“Hybern?”

“It didn’t catch on,” Tamlin explains with a humorless quirk of his lip. “They needed a way to justify their actions in the war, so they cobbled together a few less popular versions of the myth and reworked it to add the humans among the unnatural monstrosities. It fizzled out quickly after the first few decades.”

Jurian gestures his agreement, the mirth on his face mean-spirited. “Charming as that attempt was, I wonder how they would have felt to know that humans, at that time, also had a variant of this myth. Well, not exactly this. Death and the Fair Maiden was an epic poem – which overstayed its welcome by around twelve verses – about a young woman guarding a magical wellspring. The wellspring was the source of all magic or such like. One day, Death comes and seduces her to gain access to the wellspring. He siphons the magic away behind her back to forge terrible evils, and well, with its depletion of course the land starts to suffer too, its people aging and dying and all that, which doesn’t escape the fair maiden’s notice.

“To make an incredibly long poem short, the fair maiden, outraged by the betrayal, takes up arms and rallies a host to fight back against her former lover. They win. Etcetera. Most of our people interpreted it as a cautionary tale against trusting faeries in general. Considering Elain said the Trove was seeking its master when she went all glassy-eyed, I’m inclined to think there may be something more to it. Not that it changes much if there is. We’ve always known that Koschei should never get his hands on the Trove; that he may or may not have had a thing with the Mother in the past is irrelevant.”

Lucien and Tamlin both let out despairing noises over their goddess being spoken about in such a way, but neither outright contradict the far too pleased general. Vassa clicks her beak at Jurian in reprimand then hops towards Lucien on unsteady legs. She trills something at him and he sighs.

Jurian only shrugs and looks toward Lucien. “Would you like some whisky?”

“I’d like two.” his friend retorts in a deadpan voice

“Glasses or bottles?”

“Bottles.”

Elain smiles faintly at the interaction, before she returns to the book. She traces the lines on the page and she swears that she almost sees crystalline tears of pure heartbreak smear the writing on the page.

Chapter Text

The Bog of Oorid is the single most wretched place that Nesta has ever visited. Perhaps the single most wretched place in all existence. The air is thick with the stench of death and rot, the surface of the bog obsidian black and eerily still despite the wind. The shoreline is lined densely with trees that probably died and withered centuries ago and brambles that have no leaves or blooms but consist entirely of skeletal branches littered with thorns.

Nesta has the odd, ominous feeling that something is watching her. Underneath the rattling of trees and the howl of the wind she can almost make out indistinct murmurs. She casts a cursory look around, but spots nothing lurking in the long shadows. With the tightly locked trees, the chilling susurration of the wind, and the utterly pungent air, she doesn’t like their odds of noticing a predator before it notices them. Her companions are clearly as uncomfortable as she is: she catches Azriel outright wince. Wince.

Nesta looks at a cluster of dried grass near her feet, swaying in the wind – but upon closer inspection she notices that it’s not really the wind: it is bobbing in the water. She takes a step away from it and shuffles closer to Azriel.

“Rhysand is an asshole, but not about this.” Eris had warned her, right as the meeting ended. “The Bog of Oorid is dangerous. You never know when the ground will give out under your feet so stay close to those winged menaces. And don’t, under any circumstances, get in the water.”

“What’s in the water?”

Eris stared at her then, contemplative. “Unpleasant things. With big teeth.”

“Are you being vague on purpose?” Nesta asked archly.

“Vague? Hardly. That was a summary. Most things in the bog will want to drown and or eat you. Kelpies, witches – maybe not banshees – lightsingers… my advice is the same for all of them. Don’t get in the water. Especially not now when we have no idea what other hellish things my soldiers may have woken up.”

Eris might have ruined the moment when Nesta mustered enough politeness to give him a stiff thanks by grinning and asking if she was warming up to him, but his warning is useful all the same.

“What’s the plan then?” she asks imperiously, pushing down the creeping fear. Brave. She can be brave.

“We’ll have to keep a watch for Eris’ soldiers,” Azriel says, his shadows swirling, skittering, whispering things to him “but we don’t know what condition they’ll be in. It would be wise if we focused on the Trove first and then tried to contain them.”

“Do you sense anything?” Cassian asks. Nesta takes a deep breath. Does she?

The sheer, despondent presence of the Bog of Oorid is so loud that it’s hard to make out anything in the cacophony of noises and dread but… The wind picks up again, carrying the strange whispers that almost sound insistent this time and Nesta’s mouth parts in understanding. She has trouble sensing the Trove because this whole place reeks of it. But where is its heart?

Nesta closes her eyes and tries to focus on the whispers, trying to get a sense of direction, her feet firmly rooted in place. When she opens her eyes, she looks towards the water, deep and dark as if it swallows the light around it, and she feels the phantom iciness of the Cauldron on her skin. She really hopes the Trove isn’t in there, but she knows better than to expect the Mother of the Fae to be merciful towards her.

“It’s faint, but it’s that way.” she says, pointing directly across to the other side. “If I can get closer, I think I can find it.”

“Sounds good.” Cassian declares, squaring his shoulders. “We’ll fly over slowly, see if anything calls out to you. Az, you keep a lookout for the soldiers and monsters.”

It’s undignified to call what she feels panic, but Nesta can’t deny that a senseless, primal part of her recoils at the idea of flying with Cassian. “I’ll go with Azriel.”

Cassian’s expression pinches. “But –”

“I’ll go with Azriel.” Nesta repeats. Azriel looks at her and she sees the exact moment when he spots something in the tense lines of her face, because his mouth clicks shut, swallowing back whatever he meant to say.

“Fine by me.” then Azriel’s hand hesitantly goes to her waist and, when she doesn’t so much as twitch in protest, he hoists her up bridal style. He looks briefly towards Cassian before he takes off. It’s only a beat later that Cassian follows them.

Nesta adjusts her grip on Azriel and takes a deep breath, trying to listen to the scraping whispers, to pinpoint their source. They don’t talk, not as they’re crossing the water, a lack of distraction which Nesta appreciates. Azriel seems to know that if she’d feel something, she’d let him know.

“Left.” she murmurs when they’re directly above the center of the bog. “Go left.”

It goes like this for a while, Nesta instructing him to go a little to the left, and up ahead and then to the left again. It’s still a quiet sort of pull but familiar, as if someone stuck a mirror in front of her soul: decay, rot, death, Made as she was. They fly on, following the trail of the Trove until they reach the north-west side of the bog. They’re still a good way away from the shore when she feels it, a sharp yank and a startlingly loud, pleased hiss. The magical artefact is there, but deep, deep under water.

Don’t get in the water, Eris warned. Great. She tells Azriel and while he looks troubled, he doesn’t look surprised. He stops to circle back to inform Cassian - and time seems to slow down.

Nesta feels Azriel lurching first and then she spots an arrow arcing its way towards them, lodging clean into the shadowsinger’s wing, right next to a previous one. Another comes from a wholly different direction, this time for Cassian. Nesta barely sees a red shield snap in place, before Azriel dives to avoid being hit again. The arrows come from multiple directions – while they were searching for the Trove, their enemies had surrounded them.

Unable to maneuver properly with her in his arms, another arrow lands true and Nesta can feel Azriel lose his balance this time. They fall and fall, tumbling from the sky into the cold embrace of the bog.

Panic overtakes her the moment she hits the water. Azriel holds fast onto her and tries to kick upwards, but then she feels something else too: a horribly solid touch against her ankle.

They’re not alone. Whatever accursed creature dwells in this place has found them already.

Azriel spins around suddenly in an effort to pull her back. In the dimmed, distorted lens of the water the bone-white creature that swims behind him practically gleams. Its too wide mouth with rows of sharp teeth bites into the soft skin between Azriel’s neck and shoulder, its spindly arms trying to prise the Illyrian from her through brute force. Azriel’s blood spirals upward like smoke to color the inky darkness.

Nesta is drowning, always drowning so she knows better than anyone that their air supply will run out soon. Azriel’s grip on her loosens enough that she could try and make a break for it, but she refuses to leave him behind. She searches for her power frantically, her lungs constricting with each second she deprives it of oxygen. She remembers what happened last time she let it out, the uncontrolled devastation, but she has no choice, none at all and –

Distantly, she hears another splash through the roaring in her ears. She convulses, the need to breathe growing unbearable when in the last possible second, something zips into her hands. The monster’s eyes widen in fear and it stops its assault on Azriel but too late. Nesta slams the golden mask to her face.

It all ceases. The pain, the fear, all of it. Nesta only feels the coldness of death all around her. Thousands of bodies have perished in this bog. Some centuries ago, faded to nothing but bones, some mere days ago, corpses still bloated and rotting away. She calls on those closest to her.

Kill, she commands and one skeletal arm drags the monster down by its legs, another by its neck. The dead need no nourishment but they devour the monster all the same, brittle teeth sharp enough to tear it apart while it still lives. Through the glow of the Mask, Nesta sees bubbles of air escaping Azriel, the Illyrian on the verge of losing consciousness.

Help him, she commands another group of skeletons, and they haul Azriel above the water. In the dim light, Nesta notices Cassian swimming towards them, slowed down by his massive wings. He stares at her in shock and fear and Nesta feels it twinge in her chest. She ignores it, ignores him.

She walks straight ahead underwater, the water growing shallower the closer she gets to the shore. She spots their assailants right away. Wearing the livery of Autumn, Eris’ soldiers give her a dead, empty stare. Puppets, all of them. They don’t even twitch or hesitate to aim their bows at her.

An arrow whizzes towards her and is caught in the half decomposed hand of a different Autumn warrior, one under her command. She bares her teeth as her soldiers rise from their watery grave to punish her enemies. They’re nuisances. She should kill them. But then, a voice comes to her, from so far away, a rich velvety voice full of worry disguised as vitriol:“I will not leave the lives of my soldiers in your hands. I don’t trust you not to slaughter them on sight.”

Something inside Nesta stirs to wakefulness, her very soul shaking free of the Mask’s influence. She blinks like she’s trying to chase away a mirage.

“Restrain them.” she orders aloud, voice humming with foreign authority. “Keep them from following us, but don’t hurt them.”

While her army of the dead marches out of the Bog of Oorid on her command and fans out in pursuit, she goes back for Azriel and Cassian. They’ve both made it out of the water, Cassian hauling an unresponsive Azriel to safety. A bony white hand briefly reaches out towards them from the deep but it’s dragged back down violently as soon as it does.

When Cassian notices Nesta, the same stunned, surprised look returns.

“Nes.” he breathes. “What…”

Azriel isn’t dead but he’s slipping and slipping and perhaps… She looks at his shadows, swirling around their master. She grasps Azriel’s other arm, the power of death and command thrumming in her veins.

He’s not dead yet, but he’s on his way to the grave and Nesta only needs enough control over him to wake him.

“Get us out of here.” she says and Azriel’s form twitches, as if yanked by a powerful chain. His bleary eyes betray that he barely comprehends what it is he’s doing, before shadows gather around them and take them away.

Nesta falls to the ground, face first into a lush grass, inches away from a pristine boot. She looks up and icy displeasure roils off her in waves as meets the gaze of Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court.

Standing behind Rhysand, Feyre looks pale as sheet. From the corner of her eye, Nesta sees Cassian doing his best to drag Azriel’s prone body inside.

“We need a healer!” Cassian snaps, which breaks Feyre from her stupor. Her sister rushes to Azriel’s other side, helping Cassian carry him to the River House.

Nesta notices all of this, but feels remarkably detached about it, her world narrowing down to the High Lord standing in front of her, the cosmos glinting behind his irises. There’s a darkness gathering around Rhys like a second-skin, like he’s a hair’s breadth away from lashing out.

“Nesta.” he says, voice soft like a caress of knives. “Take off that Mask.”

Nesta feels a snarl building in her throat. “Take me home. Now.”

Every part of her that is capable of thought screams that this is a trap, that this was their plan all along, that they don’t intend to let her escape from Velaris twice.

Burn him, that same calm voice insists. Burn everything he loves to the ground. She will not be trapped here again, not now.

“Nesta, take off that damned Mask.”

There aren’t many dead, not close by, but she can feel it all the same, the siren call of graveyards. She reaches into her chest, calling for her silver flames. It’s intoxicating how quickly and precisely they come when her mind is clear of her frivolous fears. The flames dance around her fingers lazily, a threat made manifest.

If he moves, if he tries to restrain her, he is dead.

Rhysand swears at the sight of her power and his own night grows tighter and tighter. He doesn’t try his daemati powers, and if Nesta could feel anything in this moment, she might have been amused by the prospect that he feared to be in her mind right now.

“We’ll take you home, I promise.” he grits out through clenched teeth. He hates her, she is reminded suddenly. Always has, always will. “But you need to take off that Mask first. The longer it stays on, the more difficult it will be to remove.”

Stupid prattle. He’s stalling because he wants to keep her, because he wants to use her, wants her to bend the knee. But she’s powerful like this, wholly in control. Maybe powerful enough to defeat Koschei. The Mask is a gift, a tool. She’d be a fool to surrender it to him of all people.

She remembers every single demeaning thing Rhysand has ever said to her and a part of her wants him to start something. How beautiful it would be, to see his corpse wither and die at a flick of her hand. Lady Death, they jeered after the war. Well, now Death has come and the price must be paid.

“Listen to me! It’s already affecting your mind!”

Nesta wants to argue but her fire falters. Eris’ soldiers. She nearly killed Eris’ soldiers. And Azriel… Azriel is injured because he tried to protect her. Where is her concern? Why can’t she feel it?

Before the Mask could reattach its hooks into her mind, Nesta rips it off: it feels like drawing breath for the first time. She heaves and falls to her knees, bent over with the sheer force of her emotions snapping back into place. Fear, most of all, of what happened in the bog. What she has been very close to doing.

“Finally regained your senses then?” Rhysand asks, a little derisively. Nesta only raises her head to give him her best withering glare. “Right.”

He plucks the Mask from the ground and walks off into the River House. If the situation wasn’t so grave as to make her mindful of violence, she might have decked her sister’s mate right then and there. Instead, she stands on unsteady legs and follows him inside.

Feyre’s eyes dart between them before they go distant, as they often do when she’s speaking mind-to-mind with Rhysand. Nesta bristles, detesting that they’re gossiping - likely about her - and they don’t even have the decency to either tell her what they want outright or go behind her back properly.

But then Feyre speaks, aloud: “We’ve done what we can for Azriel. Madja is with him now; she says he’ll be alright. The ash arrows didn’t do too much damage.”

“And the neck wound?” Nesta prompts, recalling how the monster’s fangs sunk in so cleanly, like a knife through butter. Her stomach churns.

“That… The wound isn’t that deep, thank the Mother, but Madja worries about the possibility of an infection. We’ll have to keep an eye on him for the next few hours.”

“Okay.” Nesta says, the words utterly inadequate for the honest relief washing over her. Feyre doesn’t seem to mind, however.

Her sister’s attention goes to the golden, horrible Mask glittering in Rhys’ hand. “Is that one of the Dread Trove? Did it… You looked different when you arrived, Nesta.”

“I felt different.” Nesta retorts bitterly. She eyes the Mask too, but when the whispers come once more she averts her eyes, feeling so dreadfully sick. It was too easy to sink into that emptiness. Faced with that temptation, she wonders if she could resist forever. “I don’t ever want to go near it again.”

“We’ll keep it safe.” Feyre says with the wobbly reassuring smile of a person unused to directing such attention towards Nesta. Or perhaps dreading her reaction to it. But the truth is, as long as there’s nearly a continent between her and that Mask Nesta hardly cares if they keep it under their bedroom pillow.

“Fine.” she says, then turns back to Rhysand. “Dispose of that thing and keep your word. Take me home.”

“Home?” Feyre questions, annoyingly skeptical. “The Band of Exiles manor. That’s home?”

Normally, the question would throw her. If she was to answer from her heart, it would take minutes to mull it over. Yes, the manor is where she lives, but does it feel like home? When was the last time anything felt like home?

But Feyre’s disparaging attitude makes it shockingly easy to not even hesitate. Because she knows what answer would hurt her sister the most: “It’s certainly been more welcoming to me than some other places I could mention.”

Feyre’s expression shutters and she looks pained before she turns on her heels and marches away. Rhysand gives her a death glare, but Nesta matches it. If they don’t want her here then they shouldn’t bemoan that she’s moved on elsewhere.

Elain is thumbing through her book on folktales when Nesta and – her eyes widen – Rhys appear in the courtyard. She nearly drops her book in surprise before she hurries to her sister.

Nesta is dripping wet and while her arms are riddled with gooseflesh and her lips purpled with cold, she doesn’t seem to register the discomfort at all, her expression entirely blank. Rhys appears unbothered and calm, but Elain has spent enough of her time observing the High Lord to know he’s just as tense.

“What happened?” Elain asks.

“Ambush.” Nesta explains flatly. “Azriel got hurt, but Feyre insists he’ll be okay.”

Elain’s hand flies to her heart in shock. “What?”

“He’s survived worse, Elain.” Rhys tells her, his smile reassuringly confident. “He’ll be menacing Madja by trying to get back to work within an hour. I’m sure he’d be pleased if you visited him, once he wakes.”

Elain nods mutely. Yes, yes, of course. She should let him rest. She can’t help, not yet. But if she starts learning to brew potions she may be able to, next time around. “Let me know as soon as something changes.”

“Of course.” Rhys replies easily. Then he looks to the still laboring Helion. “Helion?”

“Yes?”

“I hope you’re not in a hurry to leave after this. We will need you to set up wards for the Mask too.”

There’s a pause, in which Helion seems to consider how busy he may be or ought to be, before he mutters a sarcastic “Wonderful.”

Elain looks towards Nesta. “You found something, then?”

“Yes.”

A single word. That’s all she’s getting out of her sister. It was bad-bad then. Lucien comes to stand beside her, studying Nesta with a critical eye. There’s something soft and pitying on his face, before his expression tightens.

“Couldn’t you have dried her clothes at least, Rhys?”

Rhys puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs with his shoulders. The smile on his face is a little mean, even to Elain’s eyes. “The lady insisted we don’t delay.”

Nesta cocks her head towards him, a flicker of life coming back to her face. “And yet you managed to find time to have a private discussion with Feyre before we left.”

Lucien mutters something about asking the Mother for patience and snaps his fingers. Nesta’s clothes and hair are dry again, much as if they’ve been left out in the sun for hours. Nesta touches the top of her head, where the normally neat braids are starting to come undone, and finding it nice and dry, nods towards Lucien.

“Thank you.”

Rhys smiles flatly before he turns away from the exchange, towards Tamlin. The moment the High Lord of Spring notices he’s become the center of attention, he stiffens with wary hostility.

“I’ve already reached out to a few High Lords about the meeting. Feyre and I,” Rhys says, putting an extra emphasis on them as a unit, and Elain notices Tamlin’s claws flash before retracting once more. Rhys does too and the satisfaction is practically written on his face “we thought you could host it. It’s more persuasive that way.”

“Fine.” Tamlin replies, voice devoid of, well, everything. He says nothing else and turns rather passive-aggressively back to his book once more, his eyes tracking the lines in an orderly way. How he can actually focus on the text with such a palatable tension in the air, she has no idea. Jurian snorts underneath his breath, and Elain notes the small hint of approval in the curve of his smile.

Elain turns her attention back to Nesta, who still stands rigidly, arms hanging limply by her side, as if she doesn’t quite know what to do with her limbs. Elain knows better than to ask her what’s wrong, in front of everyone at that.

“I think we should go shopping. Don’t you?” she asks, out of the blue. Nesta’s eyes snap to her, perplexed.

“What?”

“Shopping. The weather will turn colder soon and you brought precious few clothes.”

Nesta’s frown deepens. “You’re… In the middle of all this,” she gestures wildly to the researching group on the benches and Helion weaving their wards “you’re thinking about going shopping?”

“Yes.”

Nesta stares at her, a little like she’s said something utterly insane and privately, Elain is cheered by the sight. At least she’s back from wherever her mind has slipped off to. Nesta enjoys shopping most of the time and she could do with some joy, but she does actually need new clothes. Elain knows her sister well-enough to be certain that she’d rather freeze in a summer dress than actually ask for help. This is two birds with one stone.

Helion claps his hands together and magic hits them all like a shockwave. It’s not… unpleasant. It tickles, slightly. The High Lord of the Day faces them as if nothing in particular has occurred.

“There are a lot of shops in Day you know.” he offers with a grin. “You could visit one when that one,” he points of a finger towards Lucien, almost dismissively “is finished with his library errand.”

“There’s a shop that sells dresses from all the Courts.” Lucien remarks and Elain turns her puppy eyes towards Nesta. Her sister, never one to be able to resist her, sighs deeply.

“Fine. We can spare the time.”

Elain squeals and hugs her, which Nesta bears with a chuckle that’s both very fond and very exasperated. Elain is still half-clinging to her when Helion explains how their wards work. The Band of Exiles, Elain and Nesta are all given leave to come and go freely from the building. Everyone else can only enter with express invitation and the wards will lock them out each and every time they leave.

After they’ve expressed their gratitude, Helion claps Rhys on the back and playfully orders him to take him to his next assignment. Before they can leave, Nesta reminds Rhys to look for the soldiers, if they can, with a weird note in her voice.

She murmurs her own excuses to leave soon after, citing the need to inform Eris. Jurian laughs and declares that he’d better show her where they store their enchanted paper before she realizes she can’t find it, and goes after her. Tamlin snaps his book shut too and takes Lucien aside for a moment to talk with him. Vassa chirps and hops towards Elain, who gives her a slight smile.

When Tamlin and Lucien return, Lucien mutters something vaguely threatening to the High Lord, whose lips quirk in response. Unexpectedly, Tamlin doesn’t leave immediately like the others, but seeks her out too. Elain sees the uncertainty in his posture so she smiles wider to appear even more welcoming.

“Hello, Tamlin.” she greets, taking the initiative. “Is everything okay?”

“No.” he answers truthfully. “But I will work on making it so. To make the world… how did you say? More beautiful?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” he gives her a melancholy smile. “I am returning to Spring. The hellhounds still need culling. But I… I wished to thank you. I’ve forgotten myself, my duty, in my grief. Thank you for reminding me.”

“Tamlin. I didn’t mean to… duty isn’t the only…” she takes a deep breath and starts over. “Life can be cruel but I have to believe tomorrow will be better. Or the day after. The sun is bound to shine again one day. You deserve to see that too. So please. Take care of yourself.”

Tamlin’s expression softens. “Your kindness does you credit; I do not know if I will ever deserve it. I’m glad Lucien has someone like you.”

“So do you. If you wish it.” she says gently. “Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

“No… No, I don’t think I will be.”

Chapter Text

Nesta doesn’t give Jurian the satisfaction of scowling when he walks past her and returns to dangle an enchanted paper in front of her face. She snatches it and tries to listen to his explanation on how to use it, even though most of it is pretty self-explanatory. She’s rewarded for her attempt at patience with a pen.

She marches into her room and locks the door.

Only then does she take one deep shuddering breath. She notices, belatedly, that her hands shake the slightest bit. She wants to get to the Mask. She never wants to see that Mask ever again. She feels like she’s about to vomit up her guts. Nesta lowers herself onto her bed, takes out the pen and writes: Some of your soldiers drowned. We didn’t hurt them. Rhysand will look for them.

The words are coming in fits and starts, not making altogether much sense. Her thoughts are miles away. Because something did almost happen to them. Nesta almost killed them. Not Cassian or Azriel. But her. Shame and fear constrict her throat and the paper disappears from her hands before she could continue. She’s paused for far too long after the last sentence.

She sighs and settles into the bed with her book, unwilling to go out and endure small talk just now. It’s only after dinner, after a shower that she sees the paper coming back with a simple thank you. Nesta stares at the paper waiting for her, urging her on.

She hated it, how that Mask corrupted her thoughts. But that clear-headed control is seductive - she doesn’t want to be seduced. Stubborn determination makes her take up the pen and set it to paper, before she could change her mind:

If the offer still stands, I would like to train with you.

This is exactly what she needed, Elain thinks, staring at the busy square. It’s not the first time she’s had that thought. She’s had it the moment she first glimpsed the capital of the Day Court and it has looped around her mind with every new step.

Lucien has winnowed them into the main market. There are colorful stalls all around them, the intoxicating smell of spices and burnt sugar lingering in the air. In the center of the plaza is a sparkling fountain with a statue of a broad, muscular male, that Lucien informs them is the previous High Lord of Day, the one that was executed for rebelling against Amarantha.

And around them, winding their ways across the stalls, laughing and bartering are so many faeries, dressed in chitons of various colors and lengths and adorned with complicated bits of glittering jewellery. At a nearby stall a young faerie - teen by the looks of it - picks up an armband styled after a snake devouring its tail and shows it off to his friend, preening at the following compliment. A couple of females pass by, arm in arm, sharing a piece of friendly gossip. Lovers throw coins into the fountain, making a wish and then sealing it with a kiss.

“All this has been renovated in the last few years.” Lucien tells them. “Amarantha laid waste to most of this area of the city. It’s defiance of a different sort, for life to flourish where there was such death before. I have to respect the enduring spirit of these people.”

Even Nesta isn’t immune to the general cheer in the air. Her sister tilts her head closer to the rays of the sun, like a cat basking in the warmth and the peace. Elain is glad to see it. While Nesta was resolutely tight-lipped about what occurred at the Bog of Oorid, both Azriel and Cassian told her that things had gone as awry as they possibly could have. By the time Rhys sent people after them, Eris’ soldiers vanished too, no trace of them save the bloated corpses of those that drowned in pursuit of the Mask.

But Elain knows she needs the day out as much as Nesta does. Even though all of them are okay, worry over Azriel still lurks in the back of her mind and the pair of glinting eyes she caught watching her outside his room that vanished before she could say so much as a hello didn’t help her general mood either.

“Buy whatever you would like.” Lucien informs them, handing them a generous amount of money. Then his lips quirk. “I hear the tea is excellent. The clothes shop you’re looking for is a little way further, the second street to the left past the market.”

They agree to meet up here, at the marketplace, once Lucien is done with the library and Elain takes her leave of him buzzing with excitement. She grabs Nesta’s arm and drags her into the throng of people browsing the wares. Elain is drawn to the jewellery first, quite enamored by a circlet adorned by golden laurel leaves. After a quick permission from the happy vendor - no doubt eager for a purchase - Elain lowers the circlet on her head and poses for Nesta.

“Well?”

Nesta seems to consider it, before she dismisses it entirely. “A bit gaudy, if you ask me.”

Elain removes the circlet and stares at it, pouting. “I think it’s lovely. But you’re right, it doesn’t suit me very much, does it.”

She sets the circlet back, looking at the other things. Nesta begins rifling through different necklaces, evaluating each piece with a critical eye while Elain tries on at least six different earrings. It reminds her of the times when they - mostly Feyre - managed to scrounge up enough money that they could afford to go to the market. Times that were precious few and far between, where they could feel like any other young girl.

When she pushes ahead to a different stall, she finds shimmering fabrics that change color depending on which direction the light hits them, some enchanted jewellery - trivial things, necklaces that glow in the dark, rings that reflect the wearer’s mood - potions and a satchel that the vendor promises can fit half a home in. When Nesta asks for her to prove such a claim the Fae’s gills move in what Elain assumes may be a giddy laugh. She is trying hard not to stare, but truth be told, she hasn’t seen so many varieties of… well calling them lesser faeries would be cruel, she thinks. Other Fae? Non-High Fae? She frowns a little and shelves the thought, focusing instead on watching the blue-skinned, gilled lady get to work, whistling to her neighboring vendors.

After two books, a small candlestick, a tray, and three different coats disappear into the satchel Elain and Nesta are invited to root around the bag. An amazed laugh startles out of Elain at the sensation of spaciousness left inside. Suffice to say, they deem it absolutely necessary for their shopping needs and purchase one, Elain waving a cheery goodbye to their vendor.

Elain does prove Lucien’s suggestion true by seeking out the tea selection, reflecting with some humor that she will need a large supply to keep up with her stress-brewing habits if the coming days will insist on being similarly eventful. At the sight of vendors selling delicacies from the different corners of Pryhtian the last of Nesta’s reticence melts away. Sitting on a bench, tearing off chunks of her chimney cake which smells positively divine, Nesta looks like a person who has – if for but a moment – found complete inner peace. Beside her, Elain is enjoying a strawberry lemonade, making similarly contented noises from time to time.

Only after they’ve thoroughly explored the market do they take off towards the dress shop. Elain is pleased to see that the slowly thawing attitude of Nesta’s holds out even as the little ring chimes above the door to announce their arrival.

The female that greets them looks High Fae, at a first glance. But as she comes closer, Elain notices that there are glittering scales climbing up her neck and instead of a pointed ear, her fluttering hair as she walks reveals two small holes. Her colleagues, of which there are several, in deep conversation with other customers, also consist of a wide range of different faeries, from different Courts and even types.

“Welcome to Dresses from the Masses.” the female smiles at them. “Can I help you?”

“You may need to.” Elain replies, offering a bright smile of her own. “For now, we’re only browsing.”

“Feel free then.” the female spins around, roughly explaining which Court’s fashions will be found where, before she flits about like a butterfly, addressing another customer’s needs.

While Nesta, taking the need for warmer clothing to heart, takes off towards Winter fashions, Elain instead starts methodically from the beginning. Her eyes are caught by a beautiful pink chiton with a golden sash first, then, as she moves she finds a Spring style poufy beige dress, adorned with leaves and vines on the skirt, flowers blooming from the waist up. She runs her fingers over the soft material reverently, and then she notices another dress from the corner of her eyes at a different section.

It’s… not quite a dress she’s used to. It’s made of a shimmering, light turquoise material. It’s a two parter: a shirt with sparkling, nearly translucent sleeves and stretchy leggings that come with a generously long overskirt, that still allows for ease of movement while preserving some of her modesty.

Elain plucks it from the rack, intending to try it on. The color may clash with her skin, or she may feel uncomfortable with even so little of her legs exposed. But it looks… comfortable, even if clearly not meant for autumn weather. And if she wants to tag along to missions, she may need it too.

When she runs into Nesta, she sees her sister with two furred (presumably Winter) dresses on her arm, one white and one gray, as well as a simple shirt and pants. She is standing in front of a stunning ball gown on display, eyes betraying wonder and some longing.

A mixture of reds, oranges and yellows swirl throughout the flared skirt of the dress, mimicking mesmerizing flame. Autumn, obviously. Understated, yet extravagant. Beautiful.

Nesta walks away from it, reluctantly.

“You could try it on.” Elain suggests. Nesta’s head whips towards her, noticing her standing there, then putting together what she means. “It would look beautiful on you.”

“Very practical too. I’m sure I will be invited to a lot of balls in the near future.”

In the wake of Nesta’s sarcastic words, Elain frowns. It’s not quite as forceful as a vision but it’s still there, that fuzzy feeling, the soft buzzing in her skull. It’s… a hunch.

“Try it on anyway. You may be surprised.”

Nesta hates admitting this, but the overpriced ball gown does look good on her. To make matters worse, it’s comfortable too. She pats down the skirt, swallowing past the lump in her throat as Elain’s queries of whether she is done get progressively more excited the longer she doesn’t reply.

She walks out of the dressing room and is immediately greeted with Elain’s delighted gasp. That does not help her resolve to not buy this dress in the least.

“Oh Nesta, you look so pretty!” her sister announces, eyes twinkling. “You must buy this dress, you must.”

With what money, she grumbles internally. Lucien gave them enough to buy a small castle, yes, but he likely hadn’t meant for them to buy Nesta a dress that costs half a fortune which she will likely never wear. It would be… too much. Just too much.

Elain’s head whips towards the door without warning, right as the bell chimes and Lucien walks in. Nesta’s lips curl in distaste. Likely a lovely symptom of the mating bond in action. Nesta has no idea how Elain can endure it. If it ever turns out that she has a mate she might debate jumping off a cliff. Depending on the attitude of her “intended”, she may push them off too.

Elain only waves enthusiastically to Lucien, whose expression grows infinitely more cheerful. As the male makes their way towards them, Nesta is suddenly and self-consciously aware that she’s still in that useless ball gown and there’s absolutely no chance in hell she could duck back into the dressing room before Lucien gets to them.

“Hello Lucien.” Elain smiles brightly, then – traitor she is – lightly shoves Nesta to the front, so Lucien can get a full view of the dress. “Please help me convince Nesta to buy it.”

Lucien’s lips quirk in a smile at Elain’s eagerness before he addresses Nesta. “Your sister is quite right. It would be a waste to leave this dress, when it suits you so well.”

Given that he’s the one funding this shopping splurge, Nesta can hardly argue further. Her fingers twitch in the fabric of her skirt, more elegant than the clothes she’s worn in a long time, and something that she has picked. Something that is hers.

“Thank you.” Elain chirps after seeing her resolve shatter well and truly. “Did you have luck with your research?”

“Hard to say. I have a lot of new literature to delight Jurian with about the history of Prythian before the Courts and what little we have on the Weaver. Whether that’s lucky or not, remains to be seen. But I’ve found something else too.” Lucien reaches into his bag and pulls out a thick book, with a simple leather-bound cover. On it, the text simply reads A Beginner’s Guide to Potions and Draughts. Elain takes it reverently. “Vassa told me you were interested in potions.”

“I am.” Elain confirms, flipping through the pages with a smile, absently reading headings, and studying illustrations. Then she looks up to Lucien, the full force of her beaming expression now directed to the male in front of her. “Thank you. And Vassa too. This is… this is so kind.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

Nesta, feeling the atmosphere growing mushier, has attempted to slink off without a notice, but Lucien calls out for her to stop before she quite manages to disappear into the dressing room. He once more reaches into his bag and this time produces a book for her. Nesta takes it and her eyes go wide as she takes in the cover. Two unrealistically beautiful masked figures are wrapped in an embrace, both of them pointing a dagger at the other’s back with an embossed, golden title declaring The High Lord’s Bride at the top.

“The bookseller insisted this is their smuttiest one.” Lucien confides in her with a rakish grin. Nesta only stares at him, at a loss for words. He got her a gift. Lucien. Got her a gift. A good gift too.

“You didn’t have to.” she manages finally.

“I am aware of the concept of free will.” Lucien teases and if Nesta wasn’t still so shocked she might have rolled her eyes at the self-satisfied contentment in his tone. He’s well and truly Eris’ blood. “I wanted to.”

Nesta cradles the book to her chest, eyes going back and forth the grinning pair, before she nods and says. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

Elain packs the books into their bottomless satchel. Eventually they end up buying the turquoise outfit and the pink chiton for Elain, a few Winter dresses, the shirt and the pants Nesta picked out as well as a dark blue jacket and… that ball gown too. Nesta watches as it disappears into the satchel with one last lingering look. Elain catches it and smiles brightly at her. It speaks to the quality of the day, that Nesta only hesitates for a single heartbeat to return it with a small smile of her own.

It’s a rather peaceful night. Nesta has decided to join them, at first making eager conversation with Elain, then curling up at the edge of the sofa with her new book. Elain watches with delight how her sister is slowly but surely being enchanted by it, disappearing into its pages.

Elain begins to pore over her new potions book too, calling over Lucien to sit with her, so he can explain processes and terms she doesn’t understand, as well as how to procure some of the more exotic plants. Jurian, bent over their pile of research, grumbles something about him being a filthy traitor which he summarily ignores.

“Tam will have most of this.” Lucien says, tracing a line to the ingredients of a potion meant to speed up the healing process. His index finger rests on an item called unicorn hair and taps it twice. “That’s trickier to get, so I hope he hasn’t trashed all his stores in a fit.”

“Do you think he would give us a few seeds too? Because I could write up a list.”

“I’m sure he would, if you asked.” Lucien grins. “You’ve made quite the impression on him. Unsurprising, of course, you tend to have that effect on people.”

Elain ducks her head a little, pleased by the compliment, then carries on - valiantly, in her opinion. “Who knows, maybe gathering plants will even trick him into resting, a bit.”

Lucien shakes his head with a chuckle. “It’s so sweet that you actually believe that. When it comes to self-destructing, Tamlin is excellent at multitasking.”

When Vassa arrives, her hair barely tamed, eyes a little unfocused and tired, Elain wastes no time in crossing the room to hug her. The queen is a little startled by the action if Jurian’s loud snicker is anything to go by, but she pats Elain on the back a little uncertainly regardless.

“Thank you.” Elain says, letting her go. “For the book.”

Vassa’s expression clears. “Ah. I take it Lucien managed to find one?” she asks, glancing towards her friend for a split second. “Excellent. I hope you will find it educational.”

“I already do.” she answers. Vassa smiles back at her, but it’s such a small, exhausted thing that Elain follows it up immediately with: “Nesta and I also bought a few clothes. May I show you?”

Vassa frowns, eyes seeking explanation from behind Elain – likely from Lucien – but whatever she finds is enough for her to offer a still confused, but tentative nod.

She takes Vassa by the hand and gently drags her into her room. As the queen blinks around the space, altered a bit by her decoration, it occurs to Elain that she hasn’t really invited anyone into her new room before.

She brought her favorite cactus along and it rests beside her vision journal on the desk. Most of her things are shoved into the depths of the wardrobe which she is throwing apart to fish out her new dresses. But there is a plush animal on her bed. She brought only one from home, because at that time she had thought that their stay here wouldn’t last as long as it already has.

It’s the little fox plush, so much like the one she had been gifted from her father. Vassa notices it immediately and her expression warms to amusement. “Does Lucien know you’re sleeping with a fox?”

Elain pauses as the implications sink in. Lord of Foxes. She has quite forgotten about that moniker to tell the truth. “I… No. But it’s… It’s not…”

“Fear not,” Vassa replies, waving away her worries and her slight mortification. “I won’t torture you or him with it. I’m not Jurian.”

“How very kind of you.” Elain says with a small laugh. Then she finally fishes out her dresses. She tells Vassa about the market, about the things they’ve seen, the sounds, the noises, the food and Vassa listens raptly.

“We had such markets in Scythia too.” she tells her eventually, voice filled to the brim with fondness and nostalgia. “The streets came alive when it was market day, everyone coming and going, haggling the prices. Sometimes I could hear the noise of the people, my people even in the farthest reaches of the palace. I didn’t appreciate it enough back then. Complained about working in such commotion. But now… I would give anything to know my people are happy.”

“They’re going to be okay, Vassa.” Elain says, sitting down beside her on her bed. “We will make sure they are.”

“Are you only being kind or is that a vision?”

“Neither. It’s a promise.”

“You should not make promises you can’t keep.” Vassa sighs, but then closes her eyes. “But for now, I will pretend that I believe you. I’ve earned a white lie, I think.”

Elain cocks her head and studies her, the queen without her throne. Then asks, softly: “Could you tell me more? About your kingdom?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything you would tell me. What’s the weather like there? Are there any favored dishes? A national flower perhaps?”

Vassa pauses, as if contemplating if she wants to answer, or how she should go about it if she does. The pause goes on long enough that Elain wonders if she even will answer. But then, after a minute or so, Vassa speaks, her voice measured, matter-of-fact.

“Windy. Terribly windy, especially in the mountains. A near perpetual fog during autumn. We are quite partial to various pasta dishes. As for a flower… None for Scythia, but we do have a rockrose in the royal crest. Symbolizing, supposedly, resilience, beauty and surviving hardships.”

“How fitting.”

“And you? Lucien tells me you’ve lived in this area. Was it always so….”

“Unkind?”

“I would have said ‘dreary’ but unkind is perhaps a more diplomatic word for it.”

Elain mulls it over, face pinched in a frown. “I think it was always… small. From our hovel, it looked grand but you could always feel it. That even if they were better off than us, no one in our village dreamt of anything beyond survival, or getting out. I think, deep down, everyone who lived here felt forgotten by the world and that sort of thing leaves a mark.”

Vassa is quiet for a moment, deeply considering Elain’s words. She reaches for the fox plush, gently stroking down its ear. “If… Once I am back on the throne, I will look into the matter. The people of these lands have been left to fend for themselves for too long. I would offer any aid I can.”

Touched by the offer for these people who used to be hers, Elain says “I’m sure they would welcome any help you may be able to give.”

“I hope so too.”

Chapter Text

The days leading up to the High Lords’ meeting seem to pass in a blur. Given their perilous standing in one or multiple Courts, none of them are invited, and are instead relegated to waiting patiently. Elain doesn’t mind it much. Her letter to Tamlin is answered quick enough, accompanied by a generous amount of the materials she requested: potion ingredients and some equipment and seeds with a thorough instruction on where, how, and when it is advisable to plant them.

Elain has wasted no time monopolizing Lucien so he could assist with her first potion brew. Jurian has gone out to check on the closest village, Nesta, surprisingly, offering to accompany him. And so, for now, it’s just the two of them. Elain is glad of it. She doesn’t need witnesses if she’s going to mess up badly. Especially because some of the ingredients are incredibly rare.

Lucien has appropriated a ceramic bowl for them, and together they attempt to make sense of the guide. He has admitted to having a lack of green thumb, and Elain can tell. While she flounders over the instructions (“What does it mean by ‘soak the unicorn hair in the brew until the magic leaves it’?”) he routinely squints at the plants at the workbench (the dinner table) for a good half a minute before he can pick out the correct one.

“After all these years in Spring, you’d think I could recognize this one by now.” he says, twirling a flower with three large multicolor petals between his fingers. Mother’s mercy, if Elain recalls correctly. “And yet here we are.”

Lucien double-checks the instruction and hands her the mortar and pestle, before dropping the flower inside. “We need to grind it apparently. Very finely.”

Elain begins to crush the flower meticulously, uncertain enough to check back to the text occasionally, as if it is liable to change between one blink and the next. But no: it still says they should add this to the mix, then the calendula petals, the dandelion juice and after that they need to check on the unicorn hair. Supposedly, it should become dull and gray once its magical energies have been transferred to the brew.

Though making her first potion fills her with anxiety, it’s the buzzing kind. The one where she can’t wait to be done because she’s so over excited to see how they did. That Lucien is obviously a novice at the craft helps set her mind at ease as well. She glances at his profile from her periphery, his brow set in deep concentration as he reads the text over again, and she smiles a small private smile. She likes this, getting to discover something new alongside him.

As she grinds the flower, the mortar heats, reddish steam rising from the plant. Fae plants, as Elain is increasingly finding, behave in erratic ways more often than not. Once she’s done, she dumps the contents into the bowl – diligently refusing to stir it in, as per the guide – and goes to put the reminder of the ingredients in.

Elain gingerly picks up the unicorn hair, which glows still, if only a bit.

“Hmm.” Lucien observes, adorably intent, a true budding unicorn hair scholar. “I think we ought to let it rest for a moment more.”

“I agree.” and with that Elain lets it plop back into their - frankly disgusting looking - concoction. She leans back against the table, waiting. Lucien does the same.

“Potion-making was never prized in Autumn.” Lucien says. “Spring dabbled a bit, but it was always a more Dawn preoccupation, to draw magic from nature. Regardless of the quality of our potion of dubious shade, I am quite enjoying the process. After living for centuries, it’s always a pleasant surprise to be surprised by something new.”

Elain grins back at him, emboldened enough to be a little cheeky. “Are you saying you’re a hopeless curmudgeon?”

Lucien laughs, sounding utterly delighted and startled by her teasing and that makes Elain grin with pleasure. “Perhaps I am. Or perhaps you’re a lovely company and your friendship brings me comfort. Alas, only one of these can be true and you already picked the less charming option. It would be ungentlemanly of me to argue.”

“Rude.” Elain smothers a laugh and tries the unicorn hair again. Perfectly dull. “But I’m having fun too. Even though our potion is truly of a questionable shade. It isn’t supposed to blue, is it?”

“According to the guide, we should have landed at red.”

“Oh dear.” Elain eyes the liquid with wariness. “It’s not supposed to bubble either, correct?”

“No. No, it should not.” Lucien’s mechanical eye whirrs. “I… I am going to reread the safety instructions on disposing of unknown potions. Keep an eye on it in the meantime, in case it does something untoward.”

In the end they determine the potion safe enough to dump in the garden. A blue vein climbs up the willow tree at breakneck speed and the bark cracks, revealing newer, healthier bark beneath. And then it cracks again. The bark below that layer starts to shimmer, dusted with faint blue. Elain and Lucien stare at it for a few seconds.

“So,” Elain says, cheerfully. “shall we try again?”

When Nesta and Jurian return to the manor they are greeted with the sound of Elain’s high-pitched laughter. Jurian raises his eyebrows meaningfully, which Nesta resolutely ignores. As they enter the living room area, Nesta sees something downright flabbergasting. Elain is sitting with her knees on the couch, nearly bent over laughing, and clutching a decorative cushion to her face while Lucien watches her with shameless amusement and… a hint of pride. Pleasure, about making her happy.

Nesta blinks. When was the last time she has seen Elain laughing like this, so unrestrained, so honest? Not since the hovel, and certainly not since their transformation. It’s lovely to see, if jarring.

“Hello.” Lucien greets them. “Everything went well in the village, I take it?”

“Yes.” Jurian answers, sitting down into the armchair with a thud and kicking his boots off in one fluid motion. “And you? Managed to brew something?”

This elicits another round of laughter from Elain, who, after discarding the cushion, rushes to the kitchen. Then she brandishes a vial with a bright red liquid. Jurian squints at it, then at them.

“We’ve been to the village, checked with the locals, had lunch – ”

“Jurian had a very one-sided stone-skipping contest.” Nesta interjects, and Jurian gestures to her in agreement.

“I had a very one-sided stone-skipping contest, walked home and in all that time you brewed a single potion?”

“Ah, no.” Lucien corrects, stamping down on a grin. “We brewed several. Out of those only one was, how shall I put it. Safe for consumption?”

“Trial and error.” Elain agrees and shakes the vial which makes the liquid sparkle. “It’s the right color now.”

Jurian gives them a dubious look. “If I’m dying and the alternative is that, please let me die with my dignity intact.”

“You’ve never had a shred of dignity in your life.” Lucien retorts with cheer “What makes you so sure you’ll have it in death?”

Nesta feels her lips twitch, threatening her with a smile as their inane bickering continues. Elain eventually leaves them to it and asks her about her day. It’s not unpleasant, chatting with them about something other than the certain doom looming over their heads. Of course, good things rarely last.

Just as Nesta is about to fetch her book, jumping back into the fallout of the disastrous arranged marriage of the two protagonists, she feels the wards ripple around them, announcing a visitor. Elain jumps to her feet instantly to see who is at the door, and when she returns Nesta almost wishes she had been the one to volunteer. She certainly would have slammed the door in Feyre’s face, and not let her walk into their manor, in a glittering black gown and a tight, unhappy expression on her face.

Nesta is on her guard in a second. “What do you want?”

Feyre’s head swivels towards her, annoyance marring her features. “I came to tell you about the High Lords’ meeting. I thought you’d be grateful.”

Nesta opens her mouth to argue that it’s the biggest load of bullshit she’s heard today, because the Night Court could certainly send a note or one of the bats in the stead of their High Lady to give a fucking report. But Elain’s warning gaze cuts through her, reminding her to play nice, so Nesta falls back into the sofa sullenly. Fine. Let Feyre strike the first blow. She won’t last more than a minute without insulting someone present anyway.

“Thank you, Feyre.” Elain smiles, a little too brightly. “How did things go?”

“As well as it could have, for the most part.” Feyre admits, searching for a place to sit that is not beside Nesta. Finding none, she remains where she is and takes a deep breath. “As we expected, most aid would be provided by Night. Many of the Courts chipped in with some symbolic support. Even Autumn, suspiciously.”

“Hardly more suspicious than my father usually is.” Lucien says “He has his sights on Spring as well. Any soldiers he lends to ‘help’ are only there to make sure Night doesn’t annex Spring before he can.”

“Comforting.” Feyre says wryly, hands twitching at her sides.

Nesta’s eyes narrow. “Is that all?”

Feyre gives her a displeased look. “Yes, that is all. I can try to recount the two-hours back-and-forth between the High Lords verbatim, if you insist. It was a riveting conversation.”

“This could have been a note.”

Elain hisses a warning at her, but Nesta doesn’t back down. Feyre cracks first. “If you must know,” her sister says, bristling “I wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Nesta!” Elain snaps, lips pursed in disapproval. Then she offers a placating smile to Feyre. “We can go to my room, if you prefer.”

Feyre gives a relieved nod to Elain. “Yes, thank you.”

Elain grabs Nesta’s hand and all but drags her to follow. She does that a lot lately, manhandling people into being nice. Elain closes the door behind them, right as Feyre sinks to sit on the bed. Nesta remains standing. Elain looks between the two of them, eyes pleading. Nesta shakes her head. Instead of sitting, Elain chooses to stand at the bedside table between them, leaning against it.

Feyre, always brave, always damned stubborn, isn’t cowed even now. She straightens, fingers laid atop the folds of her skirt, the picture of stately grace.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what to say. To your letter.” she says, and Nesta frowns. What letter? But when her eyes seek Elain for explanation, their sister doesn’t look guilty or ashamed, so, at the very least, they’re not discussing her. But why hasn’t she heard of this yet?

“That’s okay.” Elain replies, voice low, soothing. “You don’t have to say anything. That wasn’t the point.”

Feyre smiles faintly. “I know. It did… make me think about things. A lot of things. I only ever wanted the best for the both of you.” Nesta scoffs, and Feyre shoots her a withering look. “I did. But I can admit that I may have been wrong about what that was. Or how to go about it. You look better.” at Nesta’s disbelieving look, Feyre clarifies. “Not in… you’re still worryingly frail, but you look more settled. Calmer. And Elain… Elain you’re practically glowing.”

Elain tucks a lock of hair behind her pointed ear a little bashfully. “I’m learning how to make potions.”

“Good. That’s good.” Feyre nods, grateful to be engaged with. Then she stares down at her lap. “I was upset at first, really upset. I tried to help you and you went behind my back. All I wanted was us to be a family, a real family and you left me. And then I’ve read the note you left for Azriel and your letter and at first I was angry, then confused and now I’m just – ”

“Just?” Elain prompts. Feyre raises her head, and Nesta is alarmed to see tears sparkle in her eyes.

“I don’t know. I don’t…” Feyre takes a shuddering breath and in that moment she truly looks her age. So young. She’s been through so much at so young. “I’m pregnant.” she says, laughter bubbling through her tears. “I’m pregnant and all I could think about in the past week is how much I wanted to tell you. How much I wanted my sisters with me, and that it’s my fault they’re not.”

Elain rushes to Feyre’s side, embracing her, and letting her cry softly onto her shoulder. Nesta approaches the bed too, kneeling in front of Feyre, so they can be at eye-level.

“I’m still mad at you. I will be, for some time.” Nesta says, her voice hushed, when Feyre looks to her again. “And I suspect you are still mad at me too. But gods, Feyre. I went to the Wall for you. I would have marched into Prythian, frail and human and ready to die for you. Because you’re my sister. Because I love you.” she admits, voice nearly breaking at the word. She sniffs, trying to be prim and poised again. “So stop the dramatics.”

Feyre sees through her bluster and smiles tentatively.

“You went through so much alone, but we’re here now. We’re with you.” Elain reassures her, wiping away Feyre’s tears. Then, considering the whole matter settled, she changes the topic swiftly. “Are you and Rhys happy?”

“Yes.” Feyre smiles brightly, despite the glistening tears. “Yes, we are. He cried when he found out.”

Nesta’s lips quirk into a smirk. “I can well believe that.”

“Oh, hush you.” Feyre chuckles wetly.

“Do you have any names picked out yet?” Elain asks and Feyre’s eyes light up with so much affection for her yet unborn child that it cracks something in Nesta. Their mother never loved them half as much as her sister already loves her child.

“Nyx. We’re thinking Nyx.”

“That’s a lovely name. And when is the baby due?”

“Oh, it’s – ”

Feyre stops mid-sentence, both of her sisters staring at Nesta’s lap. Or rather, the parchment that suddenly spirited itself into her lap. It’s an elegant cursive she is familiar with and reads simply: I have a lead. I’ll come by when I can. E.

“Eris.” Nesta confirms aloud. Feyre gives her an odd look.

“Why is Eris writing to you?”

“Maybe I’m his favorite.”

Despite Elain’s invitation, Feyre declines to stay for dinner, citing that she’d already promised the others a night out at Rita’s for surviving the High Lord meeting – even if she jokingly added that she would likely be relegated to the sidelines. Nesta, though less on edge than before, definitely doesn’t seem disappointed by the rejection so Elain lets it go. She can read the room that her sisters need some more time well enough.

Feyre does make them promise they’ll call on her when Eris decides to show his face, wanting to hear his news for herself, but it takes Eris two days to knock on their door once again.

“What took you so long?” Nesta asks, and though Elain can see she’s far less wary than before, there’s still an undercurrent of tension in her. Worried because of Eris or for Eris though, she can hardly tell.

Eris however, only gives her a smile and slowly ticks off his fingers, “Gently coaxing my father to send me and my troops to Spring to get me out of his way and closer to you all. Arranging for him to open the Equinox Ball to other Courts as a show of unity – or an attempt for him to nab Nesta. Negotiating with Tamlin about a safe place for your dancing lessons. Oh and don’t forget, I’ve spent the entire High Lord meeting scurrying around the Forest House like a rat, covertly getting Mother’s help with identifying the wards on Father’s study, and hatching half a plan to get inside.”

Eris puts down his hand slowly, and then addresses Nesta again. “In other words, I came as soon as I could.”

There’s a stunned silence as the group processes the flurry of words. Vassa finds her footing first.

“If I may ask,” she starts, regarding Eris with a cool politeness - right as Jurian enters with a nod to confirm he has alerted Feyre and sits down beside her again “what exactly have you discovered? And please do start from the beginning. While your efficiency as a schemer is admittedly impressive, I think I speak for all of us when I say we would be in more awe if we understood what you have achieved.”

Jurian gives her a proud but distinctly wolfish grin. Eris doesn’t seem perturbed by the question, but rather pleased.

Lucien looks to both of his friends. “Look what you’ve done. Now that you’ve invited him to talk, we will never be able to shut him up.”

“Hush, sweet brother.” Eris waggles a finger in his face, humor sparking in his gaze “I’m the one talking now.”

“Mother help us.”

“During the meeting of the High Lords, I have graciously used the opportunity to snoop around. I wouldn’t be much of an heir if I didn’t know most of the places Father likes to hide his secrets; or their defenses. There’s a room on the lower levels of the Forest House, which I affectionately call his study – his real one anyway. There’s the usual defenses, illusory corridors, blood wards, cursed tiles that teleport you to the dungeons at a misstep and the like. Recently, however, Father has upped the security.”

Jurian glances between Eris and Lucien, a little incredulous “I’m sorry, you mean like this wasn’t secure enough? The King of Hybern didn’t have so many protections around the Cauldron for gods’ sake.”

Eris’ answering smirk does carry enough menace that if they’ve managed to forget, they’re quickly reminded who they’re dealing with. “Oh, Father is right to be paranoid. After all, I have bypassed all of his previous safety measures, many times over.”

The wards ripple and there’s a knock on the door. Elain lets Feyre in, who looks far more at ease than she did days before. When she steps across the threshold, she even gives Elain a tiny smile in greeting. Progress. Every little bit counts. She fills Feyre in quickly about the Eris’ findings about the study and offers her sister her seat when they reenter.

Lucien wants to give up his seat for her in turn, but Elain only laughs that it’s good for her to stretch her legs.

“The wards on the door are stronger.” Eris continues, once everyone has settled back down. “Much stronger. And that’s not all. I don’t think Father expected to leave a trail, and for an average Fae, he probably wouldn’t have. But we both know I have far better sense of smell than most. Ironic, considering I’ve inherited that from his side of the family, but I digress. The entire room reeked of the same scent I found when my soldiers went missing. Briallyn’s scent.”

“Shit.” Jurian says, and Elain gives him a prim nod, thankful for voicing what most of them no doubt felt.

“Do you think it’s about the Harp?” Feyre asks “Or some other evil thing we don’t know about?”

“They went after the Mask.” Nesta points out, drawing Eris’ full attention to her. She straightens in her seat, chin up. “We all know they want the Harp the most but they went after the Crown and the Mask first. They knew where to look for both. I don’t for a second believe they don’t know where the Harp is. We’re missing something. They still need something.”

“And we need to know what that is.” Eris agrees, then glances towards Lucien. “Given that time is of the essence, and given that she has something of a hobby for studying spells, I’ve enlisted Mother’s help in identifying the ward. It’s the Paralysis Ward of the late, late High Lord of Day, Agathas.”

Lucien curses softly and Eris nods in agreement, which garners a worried expression from Feyre. “Is it that bad?”

“Define bad.” Lucien deadpans. “It’s not a ward strong enough that only Helion can pull it off but it is the most complex ward an average skilled spell-weaver can craft. Its trick is that if you try to cleave it apart and fail it paralyzes you for… how long was it? Three whole days?”

“Oh.” Feyre breathes. “I see.”

“An enthusiast Mother may be,” Eris continues “but she has no skill for spell-cleaving. Very few actually do, and most of them are related to the royal bloodline. Or have been graciously given power by the royal family, like you, High Lady.”

“You’ve said you have half a plan to get in though.” Nesta asks, her stare piercing. “What was it?”

“Which brings us to the second part of my machinations, namely getting you all invitations to the Equinox Ball. Everyone has heard rumors that there are troubles in the Night Court.” Eris replies, and Feyre crosses her arms over her chest. She looks offended, but not yet enough to outright argue. “If you, Nesta, were to arrive with the Spring delegation rather than Night…”

“That would be a spectacle.” Lucien agrees, then glances at Nesta. “It would also paint a massive target on Nesta’s back.”

“Even Father isn’t shortsighted enough to attempt to steal her in front of a ballroom’s worth of witnesses. We just have to keep an eye on her at all times, to make sure she’s not left to fend off the vultures alone.”

“If she agrees to this.”

Nesta watches them, face blank, a queen in judgement. “If the rest of the plan is feasible, she agrees. I won’t risk my neck for nothing.”

“The Equinox Ball is a flurry of activity and such a crowd would make it hard for the sentries and guards to keep proper watch.” Eris says “Not to mention that the winnowing wards would have to be loosened to accommodate arrivals. If we keep most of the attention focused on the ball itself, I can help sneak a small team inside under the guise of servants. Between Lucien and I, we know all the fortifications of the Forest House and I could get you the exact patrol routes too. There’s still the matter of the glamour wards, but we will need an expert spell-cleaver for the study anyway, so that should cover that.”

“I know which spell-cleaver you would like to enlist and that’s an awful plan.” Lucien remarks, eyebrows arched. “Asking Helion to break into the Forest House is about as risky as if I walked through the front doors and asked Father to let us in nicely.”

“Riskier, quite possibly.”

Feyre winces. “At least we don’t have to worry about the diplomatic incident of him declining the invitation to the ball.”

Vassa looks between all of them. “I take it there’s a history between them?”

Eris snorts inelegantly, while Feyre’s eyes go to Lucien, lower lip worried between her teeth. Elain frowns, but finds the same confusion on Nesta’s face too. Whatever they know, the rest of them definitely don’t.

“Centuries of loathing, yes.” Eris confirms a little dryly. “Tarquin was remarkably forgiving towards Night royalty robbing him, but trust me that Beron is all but itching to murder Helion and the feeling is very much mutual. If this breaks bad, it may result in an all-out war.”

“I need a drink.” Jurian stands without ceremony, then calls back “Please don’t start another war while I’m gone!”

Elain can’t deny feeling similarly disturbed by how many things have the potential to go sideways. And yet… they need this. If they have any leads on the Harp, or gods forbid something worse, they need to investigate before their enemies could get too far ahead.

Elain wishes she could help out somehow, but her Sight has proven to be obstinate as always. Despite the short breathing exercises before going to sleep, deliberately emptying her mind of all distractions, she’s no closer to forcing a vision to come than she was before. They still come and go when they will unless, well…

She tries to think about the one time she had control over it, reaching for a vision of the past that Lucien painted with his words, that the smell of the carcass hijacked. They appear when they will, true, but sometimes, she thinks with dawning understanding, they can be triggered: her mistake was that she focused too much on finding the visions inside herself, rather than outside.

“I should go.” she blurts out suddenly. “To break into the study. Maybe something there will prompt another vision from me.”

“Fine by me.” Eris shrugs, but Elain barely hears him over the sharp and sudden spike of panic that lances through her chest in an instant and disappears just as suddenly. Elain looks to Lucien on instinct, and finds him pale, fingers digging into the arm of the couch. Feyre and Nesta look on the verge of trying to tell her no too, but then Vassa breaks the uncomfortable silence.

“That is a clever idea, Elain.” she bows her head. “Thank you.”

“It would be best if I went as well.” Lucien adds hastily. “Out of all of us, I am the only one who can effortlessly navigate the Forest House who also would not be missed at the ball.”

“Father still very much sends out an invite.” Eris chuckles. “Every single year.”

“I am very aware. I rarely open the letters; I am not convinced he hasn’t cursed them.”

“I don’t think he would. I think he’d prefer if we killed you some old-fashioned way. A duel, an assassination, something he can be proud of. A little hexed paper would be so anticlimactic.”

“That false sense of security.” Lucien tsks, lips twitching into a smile, some of his unease melting away. Some. But not all. “You’re going to get yourself killed one day, if you let your guard down.”

“Me? Letting my guard down? Please. I barely dare drink even natural spring water when Phobos is home. He tried to poison us five times this month already. Five times.” Eris intones, as if he’s discussing something particularly annoying and not an attempt on his and his brothers’ lives. “I don’t know if the male is getting desperate or if he’s doing it out of courtesy at this point. You, however, are not in the line of succession and fortunately involved with a lot of Courts. People are less motivated to go out of their way to kill you. Could be quite the scandal.”

Their – to Elain frankly horrifying – banter is interrupted only by a whistle from Jurian who is leaning against the wall with two mugs. He walks over to Lucien who immediately seems to know what is being asked of him: he taps his fingers against each of the mugs and steam begins to rise from it – as well as a rich smell of chocolate. Jurian leaves one with him and hands the other to Vassa.

“Your family is fucked up, Lulu.” he notes as he returns with his own mug, heating it with Lucien in a similar fashion. “I am always astonished to learn just how much.”

“Yes.” Vassa agrees, sipping delicately from her drink. “I am relieved beyond words that you got out of there.”

“As am I Vassa, as am I.” but even as he smiles at her, Elain sees a shadow cross Lucien’s face, and a dull agony that he can’t help but pass on to her.

“There is, however, one last tiny issue.” Eris says, drawing the attention back to the topic at hand.

Lucien raises his drink in mocking toast. “I am starting to see why you dubbed it only half of a plan.”

“Which is exactly why I’ve come to workshop with you all. Never accuse me of not being a perfectly good sport about it.” Eris retorts blithely. “We need to account for the possibility of the Crown coming into play. The cold, unpleasant fact is that we don’t know much about how it works. But I suspect there has to be a limit to its power: Briallyn wouldn’t need my father as an ally, much less go out of her way to kidnap my soldiers if she could have him as a puppet. If the Crown could enthrall the High Lords, why not use this power? This war could be over before it began.”

“I would caution against assuming Koschei favors reason.” Vassa says, distaste written across her face. “I think suffering means more to him than winning. He thrives on desperation. He loves to back people into a corner, to trick them, to watch them flail helplessly against his power until they give in to him willingly. Nothing gives him greater pleasure than to watch the final embers of hope being snuffed out in his victims. Briallyn wants her youth back with a desperate mania and he needs her to act in his stead. But Beron…” Vassa shakes her head “I don’t know. Perhaps Koschei truly would have made him a thrall if he could have, if only to humiliate him. Either way, my advice stands: do not assume he will think like any sane man. He is a monster, through and through, with monstrous ideals.”

Elain feels herself shiver a little at that blunt and horrible description of the creature that lurks on the edges of her waking nightmares. She wonders what exactly happens at that cursed lake and how many deals Vassa may have witnessed to be so certain.

Jurian considers it all with a twist of his lips. “Even if we suppose that the High Lords wouldn’t be subjected to the Crown’s power – or not reliably – what about the rest of you? You would still be vulnerable. And one grunt soldier, unseen, can still cause a lot of damage.”

Eris turns towards Feyre. “That’s exactly what I was getting to. Your Amren is the only one alive who seems to know anything about the Trove and you and Rhysand are exceptionally skilled daemati. So I ask you: is there any chance that your combined powers could shield you from the Crown and keep tabs on the rest of us?”

Feyre thinks about it, eyes going far away, distant, likely conferring with Rhys. Then she says, confident: “We think we can do it. Amren will look into the matter too.”

“Excellent. Do that, see if you can butter up Helion, and keep me in the loop.” Eris summarizes. Noticing several eyes on him, he sighs theatrically. “I’ll devise a plan of entry and escape, before you ask. Oh, and I suppose I don’t have to mention that you should lose the shadowsinger? Father will definitely not tolerate his presence in court and we don’t want him to fall into enemy hands either.”

Feyre’s expression tightens but she gives a jerky nod. As Eris stands, so does Nesta. He cocks his head to give her a curious once-over, an almost audible non-verbal “yes?”.

“A word?” she says. “About the dance lessons?”

“By all means.”

“In private.”

Eris smirks and gives a half bow “By all means.”

As they leave, Feyre gives Elain a quizzical look. “Dance lessons?”

“Oh yes.” she nods enthusiastically, recalling that Feyre missed that part. “I’m so pleased we bought Nesta that ball gown while we were at the Day Court. It’s simply gorgeous Feyre! I hope I can convince Nesta to show it off.”

Feyre looks skeptical even in the face of Elain’s unwaveringly high spirits and Vassa takes this moment to give her a courteous smile. “Will you stay and dine with us, High Lady? I understand that you were otherwise engaged last time, but we hope you have the chance to accept our hospitality today.”

“Do stay Feyre!” Elain insists. “You could sleep over too! We could have a girls night, all of us!”

Vassa scrunches up her face in a rather endearing way. “A… what?”

Jurian laughs loudly, and then gives her a fond grin. “Don’t worry about the specifics, your majesty. Sweet Elain is trying to spend more time with you, as she has been for the past couple of days.”

Elain only beams in confirmation. Vassa still looks a little uncertain, but somewhat pleased too. Or at least Elain would like to interpret it that way. “I would like that, I think. But some parts of my night are spoken for, I’m afraid.”

Jurian’s smile softens some more, as he hums in acknowledgement.

Feyre looks torn, but then she agrees with a sigh that suggests she absolutely sees this as embarking on a particularly challenging battle. “Alright. I’ll talk to Rhys, but I’ll stay for dinner. No promises on sleeping over.”

Elain squeals and hugs her tightly. Feyre chuckles a bit, which is a miracle in and of itself. Hopefully, they haven’t run out of them yet, and Nesta will take the news well too.

“Do our supposed ‘dancing lessons’ include training my powers?” Nesta asks as soon as she is relatively certain they are out of earshot.

“Certainly.” Eris replies easily. “With how cagey you were about it last time, I assumed you’d want to keep it a secret.”

“I – Well. Yes.” Nesta says, privately surprised that Eris would take that request so seriously.

“We do love a good waltz, though.” Eris says, his smile becoming wicked. “So much court gossip is exchanged on the dance floor. Favors won and lost, noble houses rising and falling with each beat… it may be a cover, but I think it would do you some good if you actually learned a few dances.”

Something inside Nesta twitches to life. It’s not quite hope, nor really joy: it’s the barest flicker of excitement. The circumstances aren’t ideal but even so, the prospect of getting to dance, of learning new dances even, thrills her. There is only one slight hitch that casts a pall on her mood.

“I don’t know how to winnow.” Nesta says, trying to sound casual about it when she is anything but. Her inability to winnow nearly killed her at the Bog. Her inability to winnow almost got her trapped at the House of Wind.

“Really?” Eris asks, sounding genuinely surprised. “Well, no matter. Tamlin or I can pick you up.”

Offer it, Nesta begs silently, offer to teach me. But Eris doesn’t. He just waits, gods damn him, looking vaguely intrigued which is the worst way Eris can look. Nesta’s nostrils flare. She doesn’t want to ask, but she also doesn’t want to…

“Was there anything else, or are you simply basking in my glorious presence?”

The Exiles would let her leave if she wanted to, she knows that. But she doesn’t want to be at anyone’s mercy like that, not ever again.

“If I’m already there,” Nesta forces out “you could teach me to winnow too. It would spare you time, if you didn’t always have to pick me up.”

“Our schedule will be tight, but I don’t see why not.” Eris shrugs.

After that startlingly easy acquiescence, Eris bids her farewell. Perhaps it’s because she’s grateful he agreed to help without prying, but Nesta finds she has to bite her tongue to avoid asking him to stay safe. If there’s one thing he excels at, it’s exactly that.

Chapter Text

When Nesta returns to the group and they inform her Feyre is staying for dinner she isn’t pleased, nor disappointed. She’s both of those things at the same time so her clashing desires conveniently cancel each other out. Elain is beyond thrilled about it, dragging Feyre around the manor like it’s a grand estate and not at all functionally derelict and abandoned.

Nesta isn’t inclined to join them, so she asks Lucien – whose turn it is to make dinner – if she can help somehow. He looks a bit surprised by her offer but shrugs it off fast and gestures towards the unpeeled potatoes.

Dinner itself isn’t stilted either, despite Feyre and Nesta’s mere presence in the same room ratcheting tensions. Elain cheerfully barrels through the awkwardness by pretending to be oblivious to it, Lucien has the tact of a trained diplomat and knows when to chime in to diffuse a situation, Jurian has all the tact of a person genuinely not giving two fucks, and while Vassa seems to weigh intervenening a few times, she without fail decides against it.

All in all, dinner isn’t as uncomfortable as it could have been. Feyre apparently came to a similar conclusion, because shortly afterwards she announces that she’s staying for the night after all.

Lucien and Jurian sit on the floor with a bottle of wine that Nesta knows for fact must have come straight from the Nolans’ stash and a card game between them (where they might have been hiding the wine, Nesta has no idea and feels a slight bit irritated by that fact). She watches the contents of the bottle swirl around, a little mesmerized. Her magic has been quieter since that night with the hounds, but Nesta always knew that was just a temporary reprieve. It’s a dull, if persistent ache in her now and she wonders how long she has until she needs to drown it out again, if Eris’ training doesn’t work out.

Lucien likely misinterprets her pronounced silence because he grins. “Don’t worry. We’ll be on our absolute best behavior.”

Jurian snickers and they exchange a meaningful look that betrays how little “best” behavior actually means in this scenario. Nesta turns back towards Elain.

“Is it too late for me to stay with them instead?” she asks which is met with Elain’s signature fatal puppy eyes and pout.

“Come on, Nesta. Doesn’t a moonlight stroll sound fun?”

“No, it sounds like a banquet for mosquitoes.”

All her protests aside, she does give in and follow them outside. Vassa leads the way, possibly having some destination in mind. The moon is a perfect crescent on the sky, half-covered by a cloud. The forest through which they walk is in a better shape than Nesta has seen it last, the patches of grass more numerous, the leaves on trees more verdant. Tamlin’s handiwork no doubt, as is their garden. Even so, it’s still a far cry from a majestic woodland backdrop for their walk.

Elain chatters eagerly about potions and her intent to possibly acquire a book on poison making as well. Feyre nearly chokes on air when she hears that, which does put a smile on Nesta’s face, however briefly.

Vassa admits that she often walks these paths with Jurian, with a wistful smile that instantly has Feyre perk with interest. In that moment Nesta is absolutely certain that when her sister is going to open her mouth, what will come out of it will be entirely unfiltered.

“Are you and Jurian… together?”

And there it is. Vassa straightens to her full height, back ramrod straight, cutting quite a menacing figure despite the evident scarlet blush on her face. “Excuse me?”

Feyre, for what it’s worth, looks a bit contrite over her bluntness.

“It’s just, there’s a…” she gestures with her hands, looking for the good word. Longing, Nesta’s mind supplies but is smart enough not to voice. Or perhaps petty. After all, she too had wondered why, despite their overt yearning and borderline flirting, nothing seemed to have come out of their relationship. “Familiarity?”

“No.” Vassa answers stiffly. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, we’re not ‘together’.”

Elain shoots a warning look to Feyre and steps closer to her new prospective friend. Vassa looks stiff, uncomfortable but also… very, very lost. Lonely, it strikes Nesta.

“I’m sorry if the question made you uncomfortable.” Elain says kindly. “I’m sure Feyre meant no harm, it’s just that girls’ night often involves gossiping about boys. She was just trying to connect.”

Though it’s patently obvious that Elain is merely trying to soothe over an insult, Nesta can’t help but recall late afternoons sitting on the Beddors’ porch, discussing Tomas with a starry-eyed and eager Clare. (And now she’s gone. Dead. It’s still strange to contemplate.)

“What is there to even talk about?” Vassa snaps, words bitter rather than angry. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m cursed and I’m rapidly running out of time. To even entertain the idea… It wouldn’t be fair, not to me and certainly not to him.”

“Oh Vassa.” Elain murmurs but Vassa shakes her head firmly, silencing the empty platitude that would have followed.

“No. I do not need your pity. No matter how kindly meant.” Vassa says, sounding drained. “Being sad about it won’t change things.”

“We will try our best to break your curse.” Feyre says. “I promise.”

Vassa’s expression is a little closed off when she regards Feyre, but she says eventually: “Focus on what you do best, High Lady and vanquish our foes instead.”

Feyre cracks a small smile. “I think I can do that.”

Then Vassa offers a cordial nod and stalks ahead. “Feel free to gossip about your love lives, if you wish.” she says over her shoulder. “I won’t stop you. Not if it’s tradition.”

The implication that she resolutely will not participate is loud and clear. Nesta almost laughs at the beseeching look Elain throws to Feyre, the only one of them who might actually comply without a dagger to the throat. She looks unhappy about it, but does haltingly start to tell them of a date by the Sidra that Rhys recently surprised her with.

Nesta follows after them and half-listens, half-tunes out Feyre’s words. They turn around a bend and her heart freezes at the loud crack of a branch snapping under her heels. It’s been so long. With Lucien around, even if the day had been chilly enough to warrant lighting the hearth, she didn’t have to contend with crackling logs. She hadn’t forgotten the noise, the dreadful lurch in her stomach as if she’s back there, as if she’s watching her father die in front of her all over again. But she hadn’t expected it, not now, and it’s all the more terrible for it.

“Don’t you lay your filthy hands on my daughter” and then that crack. That awful crack. The love in his eyes as the light left them. The resentment in hers, the same one that still gnaws at her. “Don’t you lay your filthy hands on my daughter.”

Crack.

Nesta feels dizzy and nauseous, her heart beating irrationally fast.

“Nesta?” that’s Elain’s voice, quiet and concerned, coming from deep below the waves. “Are you alright?”

No, no, no, no. She isn’t. But she can’t deal with this, not now, not with them of all people. She needs to get away.

“I’m going inside.” Nesta declares and strides away, her stomach in knots, her hands shaking. She doesn’t look back to see if any of them try to follow her or not.

She marches past Lucien and Jurian, ignoring their twin expressions of surprise and concern and slams the door to her room behind her. Right now, she just wants to be alone.

When Elain tries to follow Nesta, Vassa carefully steps in her path and shakes her head.

“Not now.” Vassa tells her, voice soft. “If you follow her now, she’ll only bite your head off. She needs time. When we return, once she had that time, you can be there for her. Trust me.”

Elain bites her lip, dubious about the soundness of the advice. She doesn’t understand what happened. One minute everything was relatively fine and then Nesta went rigid and bone-white and ran off. Elain has no idea what could have affected her so and a glance at Feyre tells her she has no idea either.

“Has this happened before?” Feyre asks and Elain shakes her head.

“No. She’s been upset a couple of times, yes, but she’s never, or at least I’ve never seen her so rattled recently.”

“Should we go after her?”

Elain hesitates. Everything inside her itches to rush after Nesta, to make sure she’s okay, but Vassa is probably right. They’ll stay out here, for a few minutes longer to keep up appearances, and then she’ll knock on her door. They walk a few paces, and Elain asks Feyre if they’ve told the rest of the Inner Circle about her pregnancy. This predictably brings the mood back around: Feyre seems delighted by any chance to talk about her son and while Vassa doesn’t participate so enthusiastically, she listens with rapt attention.

When they do go back inside, Lucien tells them that Nesta stormed by earlier and wasn’t in the mood to answer her door when Jurian went after her. Elain isn’t too surprised by that. She is, however, a little taken aback by the fact that although neither Lucien nor Jurian look drunk per se, there’s an ace of hearts stuck into Lucien’s hair, and Jurian shuffles cards while lying on the carpet, feet pointing towards the ceiling. Vassa only smiles and tells her that she should be lucky they aren’t singing yet - which naturally results in both of them breaking out into a drinking song in perfect sync. Elain isn’t certain if it’s a human or a faerie song - they both seem to know it perfectly anyway.

While Feyre asks to be dealt into the game, Elain excuses herself to check on Nesta, if she can. Elain knocks on the door first, then quietly calls out to her sister. No answer. She tries the door, but it’s locked. Eventually, she gives up and fetches a paper, so she can push a note underneath the door, waiting whenever Nesta is ready.

Nesta is running down a thousand steps. Her father is standing at the base of the stairway, waiting for her. She is screaming at him to get away but her voice is lost in the screech of the wind.

The King of Hybern steps behind him and breaks his neck.

Crack.

She is back at the top of the stairs, running, running and never fast enough.

Nesta hears the crack, watches her father’s body fall and feels the absence of her tears like a scorch mark on her cheeks. Again and again and again.

She trips on her skirt and tumbles off the steps, her skin and bones breaking under the force of each impact, until she is finally within arms reach of her father. She limply raises her hand towards him but then he gasps. A silver flame eats through his chest like an acid burn, withering him away until he’s nothing but ash on the wind.

Pathetic waste of life, Amren’s voice jeers. Out of control, dangerous, Nesta’s own adds, the acrid smell of the bog filling her nostrils.

Nesta wakes with a muted scream as her sheets catch on silver fire. Startled, she tumbles from her bed and watches in horror as the fire blazes merrily on. She screws her eyes shut, trying to call back the flames before she burns down the manor.

Deep breaths in and out. Just a nightmare. Nothing but a nightmare, she repeats as a mantra and slowly, she feels the cold recede. Her sheets are still simmering with pure cold death, blankets worn and torn where they’d been marred by flames but at least nothing is actively burning anymore. Nesta exhales deeply and settles down onto the floor, staring at the ceiling. She won’t cry. She will not cry over this.

From the periphery, she notices a small note on the floor. As she unfolds it, Nesta is greeted with Elain’s curling cursive. I hope you’re okay, it reads. Nesta crumples it back.

Out of control, dangerous, her mind echoes her dream. No, she isn’t okay. But she will do everything in her power to be.

When she appears for breakfast, Nesta seems… bad. Bad like after the first night in the manor. Elain asks if she’s feeling okay and gets a clipped “I will be” as an answer; then she asks if she wants to talk about it, which is met with a resolute “No”. Not encouraging responses, but Elain takes comfort in the fact that they’re truthful if nothing else.

Feyre has left very early on, anxious to be separated from Rhys for too long. Nesta takes the news of her departure with a vacant nod. She is collected by Tamlin soon after, who politely asks after Elain’s potion attempts and even rewards her with a sincere smile for her answer. Beside him, Nesta looks like a tiny storm cloud personified and Elain hopes the two of them won’t be forced to interact overlong or Nesta’s heroic rein over her temper might snap.

While Elain did not yet test her hypothesis regarding her powers, she did have the smallest – possibly – premonition last night. She is inclined to say it was her Sight, because she doesn’t remember jotting down anything and yet her vision journal was open this morning with a new entry reading simply: “The eagle won’t mean it.” Elain tried to figure out what past her could possibly have meant by that, but she came up blank.

For now, Elain would rather focus on her potions book. She sits down beside Lucien, who is bent over one of the tomes he borrowed from the Day Court. He hasn’t had as much time to research in the last few days as he would have liked; which Elain readily admits is mostly her fault. Though ‘fault’ is perhaps not the right word here, because she can’t say she has too many regrets about it.

She’s going through the section about potions that help ease the effects of ash when a thought occurs to her. She flips the pages back towards the various sleeping draught recipes.

“Lucien.” Elain begins, eyes still half-scanning the pages. “Do you think we could use ash wood to knock people out?”

Lucien lets out a strangled noise at the question. Elain glances up at him, her face devoid of any sign of jest and so he goes through every shade of bewilderment in a rapid succession. “What?”

“After what happened to Eris’ soldiers, it’s clear we need to find a way to deal with the Crown’s thralls, should we encounter more. Without killing them that is. I thought I could make myself useful.”

“By designing a poison.”

“A lady ought to have hobbies.” Elain retorts with a dainty smile and Lucien chuckles. Emboldened by his reaction, she scoots closer and taps at her book. “Anyway it wouldn’t technically be a poison. See, there are many recipes for sleeping draughts, yes, but the Fae tolerance for, well, everything, means I’m not certain we could design a more effective one. Maybe, if we added a tiny dust of ash to it, to weaken the host’s body…”

Lucien watches her get progressively more excited as she rambles on and on. Only when Elain pauses to consider whether a powder might not be more effective than a liquid, does he – gently – put a hand on her shoulder. That jolts her out of her musings. He doesn’t look very enthused with her idea.

Elain wilts a little bit. She isn’t even certain what she was thinking. It was the height of foolishness to imagine that after successfully learning to brew her first potion she could embark on something leagues more ambitious. “Never mind. It’s silly.”

“It’s not silly. It’s dangerous.” Lucien corrects, then huffs a laugh. “Which admittedly often overlaps. In any case, ash is very rare too. Not as rare as the unicorn hairs Tamlin gifted us, but it’s still hard to come by.”

Elain bites her lower lip. “I could get some. I think. That’s… that’s fine.”

Lucien’s brows are furrowed, absolutely aware of the shift in her demeanour. He falls silent. He watches her, gaze lingering and resting for a moment at the lip she pulls from under her teeth, the wan smile in its place, the sudden tension in her body, the hesitance. Elain knows that he sees all that despite her best efforts, because his frown deepens until it clears. “This… means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

“Of course not.” she replies shutting the book as if that could end the discussion faster. “I simply put the idea out there. Perhaps you could tell your researcher friend about it! The one who helped with the faebane? Or not, it doesn’t much matter.”

“Elain.” Lucien says. The smile on his face isn’t altogether more convincing than the one on hers and he looks like he’s actively fighting to say the words while he’s saying them. “Jurian is the expert on killing faeries; if you want to research ash, he’ll be downright gleeful to point you in the right direction. Of course he’s an idiot with zero regard for self-preservation, so you need to be smart about the risks you want to take. But it’s - it’s a good idea to look into it, in any case. ”

Elain brightens a little at that, some of the tightness in her chest easing. She isn’t sure she wants to pursue this, but it helps that he understands. Or tries to at any rate, despite the unspoken but fervent “be careful” buried underneath it all.

She waits until Jurian wakes and groans loudly at the stack of books to slip away in the commotion. The Nolans were always suspicious of faeries and given that they gifted this house specifically to Jurian and Vassa she highly doubts they would have felt the need to remove all their protections. Because guards with ash weaponry were never enough.

Elain walks through the manor with practiced movements, leading her to a very specific room in the right wing. A bedroom choked by cobwebs and dust, but one that was splendid not too long ago.

“I need to know you’re safe, Elain. Always.” Graysen said, with a surprising amount of gravity in his voice, even for him. He was always serious, but this time felt different, somehow.

“I know there’s nowhere safer than here.” she reassured him, warmth lacing her words. “I know you won’t let anything happen to me.”

Graysen’s hand on her shoulder tightened reflexively. “That’s not enough. Recite it, Elain.”

“Recite…?”

“The location of every stash in every estate. Recite it.”

Elain sinks to her knees next to the bed, her keen eyesight helping her find the third floorboard from its right, back leg. She pries it open and it goes easily, being designed to do so. And sure enough, it’s still there, twelve arrows made of ash and two daggers.

Elain carefully pushes the floorboard back but doesn’t move to stand, not yet, remaining on the dusty, dirty floor. Graysen loved her, she thinks. He just didn’t love her more than he hated the Fae. Even if she had somehow managed to turn back into a human, he still wouldn’t have accepted her not after she became… tainted. It’s a bitter thing to come to terms with.

Elain runs a finger through her hair, touching the tip of her pointed ear as she has done a million times before and exhales. She isn’t sure she’ll ever make her peace with being a High Fae, but she’s made her peace with her inability to be anything else.

Vassa returns before Nesta does, which, well-aware of her sister’s iron will, Elain is choosing to interpret as a good sign. Not the last tonight. She is chatting with Vassa about her day, when Lucien and Jurian burst into the room in excellent spirits, one of their large tomes in hand. Elain smiles as she greets them. “Success then?”

“A lead.” Lucien answers with a grin.

“About time, I say.” Jurian adds. “I’ve read so many books today my eyes are about to pop out. If it didn’t pan out, I might have burned down the libraries Amarantha missed.”

He looks towards Vassa a split second before she tsks at him in disapproval, obviously expecting – and perhaps outright looking for – such a reaction. Vassa turns to Lucien. “Well then? What did you find?”

“The Fae warrior, the one that defeated the Weaver and trapped Koschei. We’ve looked into different myths about her. No one actually knows who she was, but,” here Lucien hands over the book to them: “we know she was of Fionn’s court, the last High King that ruled Prythian before the Courts were established. We also know before she set off, Fionn gifted her a magical sword. It couldn’t have been Fionn’s own magical sword, Gwydion, because there are multiple accounts that Gwydion was lost much later. But Jurian and I have an idea which one it may be.”

This book is old, Elain can tell, but retains its majesty, the pages still shimmering with gold. It’s opened at a chapter titled The Weaver of the Wood but it’s not the text that catches Elain’s attention first. Rendered in horrifically beautiful detail, is an illustration that features a warrior lifting her sword high and slashing out the eyes of who Elain assumes is the Weaver, whose blood-red lips are opened in a scream.

“That illustration. That sword.” Lucien continues, pointing towards the jagged obsidian sword, wreathed in a silvery glow. “It’s Narben. A death-sword, rumored to be so deadly it could cut through a person’s very soul.”

Elain’s mouth parts in shock. But if it could through someone’s soul could that mean…? She turns to Vassa who is far more cautious with her expectations. “Are you certain it’s the very same sword?”

“I’m certain.” Jurian chuckles. “As much as she reveled in tormenting everyone, Amarantha was also obsessed with finding magical artefacts to ship back to Hybern. Amazingly, she managed to find Narben. Hilariously, no matter what she did, it wouldn’t bend to her will. Rather than ship it off and own up to her shame in the process, she tried to destroy it. Failing that, the bitch cast a dozen dark curses on it and chucked it into the sea instead. It’s one of the fondest memories of my captivity, I would be hard pressed to forget it. I always knew it was a significant sword, based on how pissed she was, but Amarantha never thought to monologue to me what exactly it was good for. If I’d known it could injure or possibly kill a death-god, I would have gone diving a lot sooner.”

“A mere cut from the sword was enough to reduce the Weaver’s powers.” Lucien says. “If we find the box, Narben may be enough to destroy Koschei’s soul. And once his soul is destroyed…”

Jurian smirks, delighted. “Deathless no more.”

Vassa’s head swivels back and forth between all of them with a tentative hope blooming on her face. “And do we know how to find it?”

“Sure.” Jurian replies easily. “I know where she did it and we can always bribe one of the sea-folk to get it. Preferably a mermaid, they’re less prone to haggling. The curses are a bit tricky though.”

“Do you know what curses they were?” Elain asks, suddenly inspired. Jurian shakes his head.

“That’s the tricky part. Even my memory isn’t that good.”

“I could get the spells. You see, you may not remember, but your soul does and I can read that. Last time, when Lucien was telling me a story about Tamlin, I could reach for that vision. So maybe, if you can recall the moment vividly enough, I could find out which curses she used.”

Lucien takes a deep, deep breath through his nose. Jurian cocks his head towards his friend.

“I have heard a great deal about a faerie male’s protective instincts.” Jurian remarks idly. “Tell me, my friend, are you going crazy yet?”

Lucien shoots a positively dark look towards him, one that evaporates the moment he beholds Elain. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Elain chirps. “It’ll be fine. It’s good for me to practice.”

A muscle twitches in Lucien’s jaw but he nods. “As you wish.”

Elain looks at him and feels a surge of affection and sympathy. She knows that he’s been unsettled by the true depth of her visions ever since he’s learnt of them. So she reaches out towards him. “You can hold my hand if it makes you feel better.”

Lucien barks out a laugh, utterly disbelieving. “What is this, a consolation prize?” Elain doesn’t reply, just grins and wiggles her fingers insistently. Lucien gives her a long, unblinking look. “You’re ridiculous and utterly impossible. You are driving me crazy.”

From his lips, it sounds more like a compliment than a complaint. Elain fights the urge to preen. “Someone should keep you on your toes. Eternity would be boring without surprises.”

He huffs a small laugh but takes her hand, sinking into the seat beside her. It still feels strange at times, touching his skin, like she’s doing something wrong, something illicit even though she rationally knows she is not. They’ve held hands several times (mainly for winnowing, true), walked arm in arm, she even leapt to embrace him once. Dozens of little, fleeting touches flash into her mind, easy and casual, and she reminds herself that it’s fine. They agreed to be friends and friends are allowed to touch each other. They do it all the time!

Lucien absently brushes a finger over her knuckles which makes Elain’s pulse skip a beat and she reflects that yes, friends touch all the time, but she isn’t sure they’re overthinking it half as much as she does. Nor cataloging it with any accuracy.

She focuses on trying to explain what she wants from Jurian instead, as clearly as she can. At first she isn’t sure it’s working and she has to ask him to narrate his thoughts aloud, but then slowly but surely there is a sort of buzzing, a dizziness.

Elain can all but hear Amarantha’s furious shout as she –

“Please, please my lady.” the goblin weeps, arms raised over his head to block another hit, blood pouring from a cut through his torso. A figure looms over him, a dull, inert obsidian blade in hand. She is beautiful and terrible and wreathed in the impression of a loathing beyond words. Jurian’s loathing.

“You would plead for mercy,” Amarantha croons, her fury reined back unsettlingly fast. “after selling me a fake?”

“It’s not a fake mistress, it’s not! I swear on my life!”

“Truly? And then why doesn’t it,” she says carefully slicing a line across the shaking goblin’s forearm. Red blood drips from the gash. “work?”

“It’s a magical artifact mistress, th-they sometimes have a mind of their own!”

“You dare imply I am not worthy of it?”

“No, I – !”

There’s an aborted scream as the goblin’s head is cleaved straight off through his feeble arms and Elain’s stomach lurches. She hears whimpering and weeping and screams, a collage of suffering and tries to block them out, tries to remind herself why she’s here, golden and worried, a thread caught on her fingers, golden and worried. This isn’t the memory they’re looking for, focus on the curses Jurian, and then the images shift, crystallize. Where it was once just an impression of two figures, Elain now sees a cliff overlooking the turbulent sea, thunder clouds roiling overhead.

She hears the strange syllables rolling off Amarantha’s tongue and in their wake, the obsidian blade glows a sickly red. Then, ready with her profane work, she tosses the sword into the waves.

Elain stares at her hard face, the hatred sizzling in her eyes. Elain has heard those curses, every one of them, perfectly intelligible. Her plan will work. That is, if she can get out of here. She takes a deep, deep breath and focuses on the thread that flows between her and Lucien. He is her anchor. All that’s left is for her to pull towards the light, golden and worried and waiting.

Elain blinks her eyes open. “I can get the curses.” she tells the others before they can ask anything else. “I was far more in control this time - probably because I was doing it on purpose. If we try again, I’ll be able to transcribe my vision. I probably shouldn’t chant the curses aloud?”

Lucien rolls his eyes, but Elain can see the relief on his face. “Please, don’t.”

“And Jurian – ”

“Focus?” Jurian finishes. “I’ve heard you loud and clear. Let’s try again. Whenever you’re ready.”

Elain’s smile brightens, suffused with the joy of purpose, of confidence. Vassa brings her a paper and a pen and whispers “You can do this.” low enough that Elain knows that it was meant only for her, even if Lucien can no doubt hear it too. Elain squeezes Lucien’s hand and nods towards Jurian. She’s ready.

She can do this. She knows she can.

Chapter Text

Her nightmares have already put Nesta in a foul mood; if she had to tolerate Tamlin’s company too, she might just have snapped. Luckily, Tamlin is as uninterested in talking as she is. He informs her that she’ll be given a light glamour that will make everyone but him and Eris see her as a lesser faerie, just as a precaution - which is understandable, because the idea of having magic performed on her without her consent is more abhorrent than enduring a conversation. But with that out of the way, he doesn’t say much else before winnowing to Spring.

The estate is in a sorrier state than Nesta expected, but not as abandoned. There are a few soldiers wearing different armors milling about in the vicinity, some obviously in the middle of a deep discussion, some just on their way from one place to another. They’re far enough that they won’t bother them, but close enough to offer a hum of noise to this otherwise haunting place.

Tamlin mutely leads the way into a grand room, utterly devoid of any furniture. Some claw marks are still visible on the walls and that makes Nesta question whether the furniture was simply removed or destroyed altogether.

Eris is by the window but spins around at the sound of their approach. When he takes in her appearance, Nesta can see a familiar glint of curiosity, but it’s gone in a blink.

“Good morning.” Eris says then nods towards Tamlin. “Fetch me when it’s my turn to entertain our guests.”

Tamlin grumbles something. In a heartbeat his body begins to change, but his transformation is complete before Nesta can be either confused or alarmed in earnest. For some unfathomable reason, Tamlin shapeshifted into Eris. The likeness is very good, she has to admit. The same curve of his lips, the same hue of his eyes, the same relaxed posture. Nesta turns towards the real Eris, who grins.

“It took a little coaching.” he quips, which elicits a low growl from Tamlin. Eris tsks in disapproval. “You had to ruin it. And here I was just complimenting you.”

“You were complimenting yourself.” the tone is entirely off, flat and displeased but hearing Eris’ voice come out of Tamlin’s mouth is even more disturbing than him wearing his appearance somehow.

“Right now, that’s the same thing. Even my own mother couldn’t distinguish us from afar.”

Tamlin grunts dismissively in answer. Nesta, unable to resist a challenge, squints at them both, trying to pick out some flaw and is peeved by her own failure. Tamlin’s acting probably wouldn’t fool her, but unless he opened his mouth it truly would be near impossible to tell them apart.

“What is this charade even for?” she asks.

“Officially, Autumn is here to help with training new sentries and I’m supposed to supervise. Tamlin here was generous enough to make it seem like I am. And even more generously, he offered to play a waltz for us in the afternoon.”

This time it’s Tamlin that lets out a small tsk, head cocked to the side, voice pitched to a croon. “Don’t assume this favor won’t come with strings.”

Eris appraises him thoroughly and seems satisfied. “Much better.”

Tamlin marches away and there it is, Nesta thinks suddenly, the flaw. At first she doesn’t know what she’s noticed, just that she has noticed it. Even though Tamlin has done his best attempt at a saunter something still unconsciously tipped Nesta off. It’s only when Eris approaches her that she realizes what it was: Tamlin walks with heavy, certain steps, but Eris doesn’t. His every stride is light, as soundless as he can possibly make it, even when he has no need for stealth.

Graceful like a dancer; quiet like a spy.

“You look a bit tired.” Eris comments, fishing. Nesta says nothing, her pride at spotting a tell perhaps Eris himself isn’t aware of vanishing with the unpleasant reminder of last night.

“We should get started. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

“Suit yourself.”

Eris jumps right into asking questions about her fire then, how it works, how it manifests, when it does. Nesta’s first instinct is to tell him to go to hell, which she can tell from the quirk in his lips that he is also aware of.

“Why?” she asks instead, wary. “What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t matter to me.” Eris shrugs. “It matters whether you understand it or not.”

Nesta shoots him a dirty look. She doesn’t appreciate that his reasoning is sound. “It’s a cold fire. Pure death made manifest.” Eris only nods as if he either knew this, or suspected it. He probably has. Nesta has no idea what rumors circulated about her after the war, but she isn’t delusional enough to think there were none. “As for when it appears…” Nesta wets her lips, truly considering the uncomfortable question for the first time. When does her power want to claw its way out from her chest? It bubbles and tries to break free erratically, certainly, but most often when she’s angry, or scared, or sad or… feeling anything negative intensely. “It’s unpredictable, for the most part. But it gets worse if I feel very strong negative emotions.”

Eris hums, once again not appearing altogether musing or shocked. This was truly only a formality then.

“There are certain magics which are pure intention,” Eris starts, pacing about the room, surprisingly serious for once “like spell-weaving or winnowing. You can’t do any of those by accident. Some magics however, are all instinct that need to be reined in, trained and fire, my dear Nesta, is one of the most volatile ones I’m afraid.” he pauses for a moment. “Do you remember your darling Feyre’s display at the High Lord meeting, the one before this?”

Which display, Nesta nearly quips, but nods anyway. She can guess at which in particular Eris is referring to. Her fiery outburst.

“She burnt my mother.” Eris continues and even now Nesta sees his blatant distaste over it simmering behind his gaze. His lips twitch in a mocking smile. “I would daresay she didn’t mean to, much as I assume she didn’t consciously decide to be an idiot and assault a potential ally over playground taunts. Fire is passion, it’s emotion, it’s a dragon sitting in your chest doing its best to defend you. If you’re angry, it will retaliate. If you’re scared, it will scare off your enemies. Controlling your fire is like controlling your emotions. To put it in a very simple and crude way, it’s much like how you stop your fist from bashing in someone’s skull when you’re pissed off.”

“So what, if I learn a few calming exercises I can stamp down on it?”

“I would not recommend that.” Eris chuckles. “Remember what I’ve said? Your fire builds and it burns within you, until your body can’t take it anymore. That’s what makes it so unpredictable in the first place. If you release it more, it will be calmer, easier to manage.”

“Fine. What do you suggest then?”

“For now? We will try to summon your flames at will. If you’re to master them, you need to familiarize yourself with them. Then, hopefully you’ll come back tomorrow and we can begin working on you not burning people to cinders accidentally. Only purposeful incinerations are allowed.”

Nesta rolls her eyes, but can’t help the briefest hints of a smile.

Eris is remarkably and perhaps a slight bit alarmingly patient with her. Nesta reckons it’s probably to compensate for her own extreme impatience. Every time she fails to summon her flames, Amren’s voice rings out in her head, calling her pathetic. She grits her teeth.

“Nesta, you’ve spent the better part of a year trying to suppress your powers,” Eris points out, infuriatingly reasonable and infuriatingly chipper “I’m not sure what you were expecting.”

“Trust me, I’m getting frustrated.” Nesta says with a tight smile and gestures to her hands. “There’s still nothing.”

“You’re annoyed. There’s a difference.”

“Testify that on my trial after I’ve tried to strangle you.”

Eris laughs, a full laugh, his head tipped back and throat exposed. Nesta can’t help but stare a little helplessly. Catching her look, Eris gives her a theatrical wink. “It is as I suspected. I’m too charming to even considering harming. It’s holding you back.”

Nesta snorts a laugh as well, but still predictably feels her annoyance waver. Fire loops around her, warm and bright, zig-zagging across the room until it lands in Eris’ palm. “Show-off”, she mutters under her breath.

“You know, you don’t need to channel your anger necessarily.” he points out, the flame lazily twirling around his fingers. “Although if you wanted to, I’m certain I could provoke you into a fit. We could always chat about your favorite Illyrian bastard. He always manages to enkindle such rage in you.”

Nesta feels her eyes flash. Based on the smirk on Eris’ face, there was probably a hint of silver in them too. “We’re not discussing him. And stop calling him that.”

“Bastard?” Eris asks cheekily. “Would you prefer if I called him an idiot, or a hollow eyed sycophant? A mangy mongrel panting after his High Lord? I’ve a thousand more fitting insults lined up for him, but none of those get under his skin quite as much and that’s just no fun.”

Nesta’s fingers curl into a fist. She knows what he’s doing, knows that he’s absolutely doing this on purpose, like he’s said. He’s provoking her and she should let him. She exhales loudly through her nose, feeling the restless fire in her simmer back down. There’s a desire in her now, stronger than her anger, no, fueled by it. He won’t win. She will. She will show him.

Her fire doesn’t rush forward in a roar but the silent hiss of ice thawing. It’s silvery and shimmering and dancing around Eris as his own fire danced around her. It’s less graceful, flames sputtering and nosediving erratically, but they’re still there, close enough that he can feel their ice, far enough that he won’t feel their bite. Eris stares at the flames, at death encircling him so close, and just claps. The flames sputter out in a flash, Nesta’s tenuous control over them slipping.

He didn’t even try to shield himself.

Nesta juts out her chin defiantly, victoriously. Eris grins at her. “Restraint and control. Well done. We can work with that.”

They practice summoning flames for a few hours afterwards, with more or less success. Nesta finds that though working through her mental barrier the first time helped immeasurably, actually controlling and sustaining her fire will need serious fine-tuning. But when they take a break to focus on winnowing Nesta suddenly has to reevaluate her attitude towards the first lesson. Compared to winnowing, she is practically a prodigy with her silver flames. After a whole hour of practice, the best Nesta manages is to blink out for a second – she doesn’t even travel a single inch. Eris says it’s because she’s too stuck in her thinking about how travel should work, which isn’t as constructive of a criticism as he seems to think it is.

Tamlin appears to fetch Eris, as promised, around lunchtime, and asks whether Nesta would like to dine in the hall or if she’d prefer he bring a plate of food here. There are no chairs here, or tables.

Nesta asks him to bring her food here all the same.

She goes and eats by the windowsill, watching the trees wave at her lazily in the breeze. Sometimes she glimpses some of the soldiers again, but nothing actually happens that would make people-watching worthwhile. So, finished with her lunch, she chooses to focus on practicing what they went over before, hesitant to summon her flames on her own for now, but more than stubborn enough to refuse to let winnowing get the best of her.

(She manages, perhaps, exactly a single inch.)

Eris returns after a while, his jacket discarded somewhere, his hair disheveled, tiny beads of sweat glistening on his skin. He’s always so conscientious about his looks, always so put together, that it’s shocking to see him as less than. (But there was a time when he looked even more wrecked than he does now, infinitely more wrecked. The memory of that is not entirely conducive for the following dance lesson however.) He notices her stare and runs a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to tame it.

“Apologies. The soldiers needed a demonstration.” Eris says. “They’re familiar enough with my fighting style that a good duel goes far in allaying suspicion.”

“I thought these were your most trustworthy?”

“Dearest, I thought you knew this already: I trust nobody and that distrust increases tenfold if there’s a chance they report to my father. Which, incidentally, covers most of the Autumn Court.”

“And yet you want to rule over these people.” Nesta observes. There’s a question in there, buried, that sharpens into true curiosity by Eris’ pointed lack of reply. “Why?”

“Interesting question.”

“Is it going to be accompanied by an interesting answer?”

“Ah, no, I’m afraid not.” Eris replies with casual nonchalance and offers his hand, ready to move on to the dance lesson like nothing of import had been discussed. “Shall we?”

The argumentative beast in Nesta wants to push against this unexpected wall between them. It’s beyond strange that Eris, freely offering insight into his suffering, would draw such a sharp line at his dreams. She draws a breath, ready to pry, to get behind Eris’ façade.

“We all have our secrets, Nesta.” he remarks before she can get a word in. “We should get started. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

Hearing her own words thrown back at her, Nesta lets the air out. Point taken, she concedes with one last sullen twist to her lips. She will mark this baffling reluctance, but there’s no reason why she should waste time unearthing inconsequential secrets when she could be dancing instead. Nesta takes his hand and moves into position.

In the silence of their shared breaths and footfalls, Eris counts down the beat and studiously takes her through all the most popular Autumn dances. It’s not difficult to fall back into practice, even without a melody to guide her. Instead of listening to music, she listens to the cadence of Eris’ words, follows his body on instinct. It doesn’t take long for her to anticipate him, to move without being tugged.

Autumn waltzes aren’t all too dissimilar from human waltzes, Nesta is slowly finding. She just needs to make her movements even more airy and account for far more twirls than she is accustomed to. She can make this work.

“Closer.” Eris says, a smirk playing on the corner of his lips. “We’re meant to be conspiring the fall of some noble house or another.”

Nesta steps backwards on instinct, hoping her memory served her true. Eris does the same, and when they come together again Nesta pays attention to stand closer to him.

“And what if I have no conspiracy to offer?” she asks, a little teasing perhaps, a little coy. She doesn’t care. She’s dancing; against her better judgement, she’s having fun. She’s going to enjoy this brief respite for however long it lasts.

Eris leans in, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear. It almost makes her shiver. “Whisper sweet nothings to me then.” he replies “As long as it looks like gossip, it doesn’t matter. Appearances are everything.”

“Making the Heir of Autumn blush in front of all the Courts would make a fine piece of gossip.”

“Could you? Make me blush?”

Eris is teasing her back too, eyes sparking in challenge and mirth. Nesta lets him twirl her, and maybe as she moves back in she moves closer than needed this time around, her eyes shining in a way that has nothing to do with the silver flame living inside them.

“I already did once.” she drawls in a low voice, taking delight in the knowing tilt Eris’ smile takes. He remembers it too, gasping for air against her neck, red flush dancing across his cheeks. “I could do it again.”

“Are you offering?”

Nesta shouldn’t sleep with the same person twice, but a few months ago she would have said she’d never sleep with Eris Vanserra either. She sniffs, uncaring, a perfect mask of haughty boredom.

“I’m only stating the obvious.”

It’s not a no. Nesta is hyperaware that she didn’t say no. So is Eris, unfortunately, if his smirk is any indication. “You are tremendous fun, Nesta Archeron. Where have you been hiding, all this time?”

Nesta should not sleep with the same person twice and what she should do even less is kiss them without ulterior motive. Even so, when Eris’ gaze flicks to her lips, her body leans closer on its own accord, her eyes fluttering closed like she’s the naive lead of a romance novel.

And much like those hapless heroines, she is also frustratingly thwarted in her ill-advised desire. Eris tugs on her hand to execute another twirl unexpectedly. Nesta doesn’t stumble, because she’s too practiced for that, but in the privacy of her mind she can admit that the execution of that move lacked her usual finesse.

The door swings open right as Nesta spins, admitting Tamlin, who looks between them with a bored but altogether too shrewd look. Nesta has a strong suspicion he was the reason Eris suddenly decided to put distance between them. In the grand scheme of things, this is a minor thing to add to the great wrongdoings of the High Lord of Spring, but Nesta feels incredibly wronged all the same.

Tamlin strides in with a violin, nodding curtly towards them. “Shall we start?”

“Whenever you feel like it. I don’t think we need a break just yet.” Eris says easily, glancing at Nesta for confirmation. She is a little tired, yes. Slightly mortified by her lack of judgment, undoubtedly. But despite herself she’s excited too. Far too excited to say no now. “You do know some Autumn waltzes, right?”

“Not my preferred style of music.” Tamlin says flatly, positioning his violin. “But I wouldn’t have volunteered otherwise.”

The melody that fills the room is soft, melancholy, darkly crooning, with just a hint of playfulness. Nesta closes her eyes for a moment, just drinking it in, feeling the beat in her soul. She’s missed this, the tension in her body flowing out of her like a tide, surrendering herself to a song and letting it carry her like a leaf in a stream. She can’t help it: as the music coaxes her feet forward she smiles, unabashed and sincere. Eris looks a bit surprised to see it, but his surprise transforms into something close to awe, and his lips twitch in mirror of her own.

If any moment could last forever, Nesta wishes it could be this one.

Nesta arrives home to find her sister staring blankly off into the distance, one hand moving across a paper, the other locked in a death grip around Lucien’s. Meanwhile Jurian seems deep in thought on the floor. He acknowledges her with a small inclination of his head, and then goes back to concentrate on… something.

Vassa pokes her head from the kitchen (her turn to cook today) to greet her, but it’s Lucien that takes pity on her and actually explains what’s happening and what she’s missed. Nesta sits down on the sofa, skeptically surveying the scene. “Should we be teaching my sister dark magic?”

“I don’t think we can stop Elain from doing anything she sets her mind to. And she sets her mind to the strangest of things.” Lucien says, with a note of genuine admiration that gives Nesta some pause. She doesn’t know what exactly is going on with the two of them, but it’s clear as day that something that was once fragile and uncertain between them has taken down roots, blooming into what appears to be a friendship based on sincere, mutual affection. Nesta isn’t certain how she feels about any of that.

But she stayed out of Graysen’s courtship too, right until he broke Elain’s heart. Unless Lucien intends to do the same, Nesta can mind her business now as well.

“I can hardly argue that point.” Nesta concedes and sinks into the plush cushions, her muscles singing pleasantly with exertion. Lucien eyes her, keenly, knowingly. Hopefully, not too knowingly. Realistically, Lucien should have no way of knowing she was clinically and pragmatically considering the pros and cons of trying to sleep with his brother; again. Nesta bristles all the same. “What?”

“Nothing. You just looked remarkably content. The world may be coming to an end after all.” he quips. “How was the dancing lesson?”

“Surprisingly tolerable.” Nesta acknowledges, without feeling the need to divulge more. “Eris is a more patient tutor than I expected.”

“He has an uncanny amount of patience. But then, he has been scheming against Father in silence for centuries. That has to take stamina.” Lucien admits dryly. “I’m not surprised that you find him an apt tutor, but I am surprised you two get along so well.”

“What makes you think we get along?”

Lucien shrugs, his pretend, casual indifference undercut by the mischief in his eyes. “He’s still alive.”

“For now.”

“Ha, yes. For now.”

When Elain surfaces from whatever vision she surfaces from and begins to babble excitedly about their findings, waving the spells over her head, then asking questions a mile a minute about Nesta’s day, Nesta reflects that her sister looks happy. She’s had a breakthrough, she’s helped them in a significant way and it makes her downright giddy.

Nesta watches Elain go to help Vassa set the table with a clear spring in her step, and finds herself smiling. Despite everything, she had a good day too. And if she hums an Autumn waltz under her breath and Lucien catches her eyes and discreetly raises his glass in a toast then that’s no one’s business but theirs.

Chapter Text

Jurian is, as Lucien predicted, very excited about sharing his expert knowledge on killing and otherwise incapacitating faeries when Elain asks him about using ash. He occasionally inserts a few remarks about Amarantha’s horrifyingly efficient methods of keeping people alive well past where they should have died, which definitely turns Elain’s stomach - even if she can admit that some of that knowledge may come in handy if they intend to keep their concoction non-lethal. They’re nowhere near confident enough to add ash itself into the mix, but they’ve workshopped several iterations for the base of the sleeping powder. Testing their combinations usually went without a hitch. Only once did the mixture heat up and start throwing off vibrant blood red sparks, and Elain had swiftly taken up the notebook dedicated to her experiments and wrote never mix Mother’s mercy with jasmine and underlined it three times.

But while her experiments and diligent potion practices help her pass the days, they aren’t quite enough to distract her from the Lucien-shaped hole in her life.

When Lucien’s official invitation arrived to the Equinox Ball, he didn’t say a word, didn’t startle to find a dark orange envelope addressed to him on the table. He only picked it up, took it between his fingers and lit it on fire. Hot ash fell to the floor; he was out of the manor before the embers had the chance to properly extinguish. He returned only after night had fallen, with red, black and green blood all over his clothes.

Things didn’t improve in the following days.

More and more often, Elain finds that whenever she would look to him, excited to share some breakthrough or simply to poke and prod, to hear him laugh he’s just not there. He was always one to rise as early as she: now the plate of waffles, with an overindulgent amount of chocolate syrup, worried as she is after jolting awake from what must have been his nightmare, (still half-asleep, thoughts muddied, she had already pulled on her slippers before she thought better of barging in on him uninvited, both in his room and his heart) that she unspokenly set aside for him sits uneaten and growing cold.

He’s still being kind and he still laughs with them, but his smiles rarely reach his eyes, his attention from them falling the moment someone doesn’t directly address him. He’s distracted, sullen and more often than not, away for the better part of the day.

Elain has tried to rope him into potion-making, made idle comments about organizing a picnic while the weather was still nice, she even tried to subtly remind him that he once agreed to garden with her. Lucien doesn’t rebuff her, because that would imply that he acknowledges the invitations which he categorically refuses to, side-stepping them all as if he was oblivious to her meaning. Elain doesn’t take it personally: though they’re less obvious about it, Jurian and Vassa are just as unsuccessful and just as concerned as she is.

It’s just that… she misses him.

There are a few moments, childish and horrible as they are, when she catches Lucien going through the motions and offer an empty, polite reply that she wants to yank on that bond of theirs, dragging him forcibly back to her from wherever he has drifted off to. It would be uncouth to do so, yet the temptation persists.

The only silver lining is that at least Nesta seems to be doing better. She has more color to her skin now, the lines under her eyes smoothened by regular and restful sleep. And she also seems… happier in general. Elain knows how much Nesta loves to dance and she is heartened to see her mood improved, even if that comes at the cost of seeing very little of her as of late.

Elain stares at the bottom of her cup of tea, the last drops sloshing pitifully over the tea leaves as she idly tips the cup to and fro. She doesn’t think her Sight or human superstitions would give her answers regarding Lucien, but trying cannot hurt.

She’s saved from her morose thoughts by the wards announcing a visitor. She sullenly peeks at Lucien who is reading a book on Koschei in the armchair. He has read that one already, Elain is fairly certain. Infuriatingly, he still makes a good show of being engrossed in it. Elain sighs and stands. She supposes she should be relieved he isn’t out hunting monsters on his own again.

She opens the door to find Feyre and Azriel and she happily invites them in. As they walk back, she casts a surreptitious glance towards Azriel. Feyre notices of course and offers an enigmatic smile of her own.

“I’m babysitting him.” she says into her mind, exasperated but affectionate. “Ever since Madja let him out of bed, Az has been determined to work himself into an early grave. Rhys and I are doing our best to keep him occupied with the easy jobs, but I think he’s onto us by now. Illyrian babies. How they survived this long is a mystery to me.”

Elain stifles a small chuckle, but lets Feyre feel her mirth all the same. She looks back at Azriel. While his wounds have thankfully faded and healed, she does notice the heavy shadows under his eyes that attest to the truth of Feyre’s words. If pretending the High Lady of the Night Court needs a bodyguard is what it takes to get him to take a break, then so be it.

When he sees them, Lucien pauses in his reading to gauge the seriousness of the matter and then closes the book without a bookmark (Elain knew he wasn’t actually reading it). Feyre explains that they’ve met up with Helion about both the break-in and Narben and the sounds of discussion draw a disgruntled and yawning Jurian from his room.

“Convincing him wasn’t easy.” Feyre says wryly. “There was a lot of bickering. The words ‘you may be insane, but I’m not’ were repeated several times. Eventually the threat of Koschei, access to the full catalogue of the Night Court’s library, and the promise of new trade agreements have mellowed him somewhat. Though I get the feeling that he wanted to spite Beron anyway, he just needed the justification. He also gave us… that.”

Feyre casts a meaningful look towards a paper clutched between Azriel’s fingers. Elain tries to catch a glimpse of it, but averts her eyes just as quick. There are words there, presumably, but they blur together disorientingly, leaving her with a near instant headache.

Jurian flinches too but Lucien only frowns. “What is that?”

“Some sort of counter-curses, from what I understood. Helion is busy, or else he doesn’t want to deal with us. He assured me that any spell-weaver could read and activate the magic he stored there and that, combined with my spell-cleaving, would be enough to neutralize Amarantha’s curses.”

“Reading it,” Jurian says flatly “may prove challenging, Cursebreaker. Just looking at it gives me a headache.”

Feyre sighs. “I know. Cassian cursed up a storm when we left it at the breakfast table. I can read it, but I can’t do that and spell-cleave at the same time. So someone will have to suck it up.”

Lucien asks for the page and studies it. There’s not a twitch of a muscle that betrays any discomfort as his eyes trail each line like it was perfectly ordinary language and not gibberish. He looks up. “I can read it. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to cast it, but I can read it.”

Jurian squints at him a little, curious and a little suspicious. “Is that because of your eye or did your moodiness evolve into outright masochism?”

There’s the faintest smirk on Lucien’s lips, there and gone again in a blink, without even prompting a retort, witty or otherwise.

Deciding against wasting time, they file back out into the courtyard. Jurian whistles softly to Vassa and lets her know of their departure; she gives a chirp back in reply. Feyre has read Jurian’s mind for the sword’s location, which she shared with Lucien and Azriel too. They’re all ready to winnow and Elain frets if now is an appropriate time to ask to come along.

She won’t be helpful there, she knows. But she’s spent far too much time cooped up in the manor, unwilling to face the world outside its gates. She is itching to get out, to do something different for a change, at a place where her appearance wouldn’t draw any stares.

There’s a hand in her face, fingers wiggling in a perfect mirror of her own teasing several days ago. Elain blinks and stares at Lucien.

“Aren’t you coming?” he asks, the echo of laughter – a bit at her expense – lurking deep below the surface. Elain takes his hand gratefully, air punched out of her lungs with relief that she doesn’t have to make a fool of herself by asking - and then they’re both gone.

They arrive at a rocky cliff, near the border of the Dawn Court. Elain squints for a moment against the sudden chill on the wind from the seas, then, once she’s grown acclimatized to the change, peers below and marvels at how the dark blue water laps gently against the rocks. It’s familiar from her vision, all of it, yet the waters are more placid now, more friendly than they were in Amarantha’s presence, the grass greener, more vibrant. The air is fresh, crisp and above, she can make out the cries of seagulls.

Jurian leads the way, carefully winding their way around the steep cliff to get closer to the sea itself. Azriel and Feyre descend beside them on wings, ready to catch someone should they slip. They don’t go down all the way down: once they reach a spacious outcropping, sufficiently close to the water, Jurian halts them, arm outstretched to block the way. “We shouldn’t go any closer. I wouldn’t want them to try and drag someone under.”

Elain’s mouth parts in surprise. “Would they?”

“If they’re in the mood for it.” comes the easy answer. “I would rather not find out.”

“I, erm, I see. And what now?”

“Now, we summon a mermaid.”

“How?”

“By inviting them to do what they love best. Singing.”

And then Jurian, without any hint of self-consciousness, begins to sing. His voice is deep, almost raspy, but there’s an elegance to it and a practice that suggests long hours spent on tavern songs or even serenades. The thought sits oddly in her mind, but not impossibly. After days of practice she feels it quickly, the pull of an echo in her reach. She can almost hear Vassa’s breath hitch in the wind and distances herself firmly from the memory offered to her. She has no right to that.

The song Jurian sings is an old love song, old enough to be unfamiliar to her, but he sings it with such soft and honest pain, that it breathes new life into it either way, and she can’t help but wonder if his own heart bled into it too.

Unexpectedly, another voice chimes in from far off. This voice sounds like bells twinkling, crystalline and pure, high and otherworldly. Elain cranes her head to look around and spots the glint of scales disappearing under the waves, only to pop up somewhere else.

The mermaid’s head breaks through the water near them. Her skin is covered in light, moss green scales everywhere, her hair thick and brown like reeds, her eyes a dim yellow with a slitted pupil. When she suddenly crawls forward, so half her body is perched on the outcropping, Elain startles at the unexpected proximity and the sight of her sharp, sharp claws scraping across the rocks. Lucien grabs her by the waist to tug her backwards, both to steady her and to pull her out of reach. Azriel and Feyre tense, their wings taut with the suppressed urge to take flight again but Jurian and the mermaid are both unaffected, singing sweetly as if nothing was amiss.

They slowly wind through the song together, the mermaid’s tail swishing idly in the waves, eyes fixed solely on Jurian. And with each second no one is pulled under and maimed by those claws, Elain feels herself relax. Lucien’s grip on her loosens in tandem with the tension easing out of her, until he lets her go entirely. She misses the tangible warmth of his hands but luckily he doesn’t move far. She’s grateful for it, finding his proximity soothing.

“What a beautiful melody.” the mermaid sighs dreamily, letting the tides carry her backward only a slight bit. She smiles up at them in a friendly way which is nonetheless unnerving due to the rows of sharp teeth that it sets on display. “Such beautiful company too. Is there something you wish of me? Humans have always enjoyed our songs, but the Fae never want anything but to make deals. And their deals are never fair, nor fun.”

Jurian kneels down so he is closer to the mermaid, who props herself up by her hands to be on his level, studying his face intently. From the corner of her eye, Elain sees Azriel’s hand inch towards his dagger, alert. The mermaid notices too, whipping her head around with unnatural speed. The shadowsinger having done nothing yet, she looks back towards Jurian, but slow enough to let them know she marked the movement.

“You’re right.” Jurian says diplomatically. “We do wish something of you, but it is a wish we hope will not cause hardship.”

“Speak then.”

“Thirty-two years ago a sword was thrown into the sea, your domain. A blade most foul and cursed. We seek to remove it.”

The mermaid’s cat-like eyes narrow and a small hiss escapes her lips. “I know which blade you speak of. It is here, below the waves, for even the currents shun its touch. It burns, a pain more terrible the longer you hold it. Some have tried to wield it, foolishly believing they can live with a fire that should never touch people like us. They hadn’t swum two strokes before they had to drop it, screaming in agony, their hands charred beyond measure. Tell me, why should I undergo such torment for your sakes, mortals?”

“Riches from the realm up above should suffice as payment, no?” Jurian asks, gesturing towards Feyre. Her sister scowls. They suspected that the mermaid would ask for precious gems, given their affinity for shiny things, but that doesn’t mean Feyre is pleased that Jurian took it upon himself to speak for her.

“Three diamonds, woven into a bracelet of shining silver. And something else. Something trivial, never you fret.” the mermaid says musingly. Her shark-toothed grin settles on Azriel as she beckons him with a finger. “Come, let me whisper it in your ear.”

They exchange glances, and as Jurian rises to his feet, Azriel takes his place, kneeling. The mermaid rises higher, angling herself to whisper something. Then, quick as a flash, her hands grab Azriel’s arms and drag him down, both of them disappearing into the water. Azriel. The mermaid managed to drag Azriel down without hardship.

Elain lets out a cry of alarm, but before they can seriously worry about their friend drowning, Azriel resurfaces, sputtering and coughing up water, but a dagger already pressed against the throat of the mermaid. The mermaid just laughs and laughs, unaware or uncaring of the danger.

“Riches and joy, in recompense for pain. I will help.”

She dives down immediately, leaving Azriel to swim back to their outcropping. The shadowsinger, sullen and pouting, stays absolutely, deathly quiet as he looks over them all. Lucien makes a valiant effort to not laugh at his sodden misery, while Jurian has no such reservations. Feyre only looks stunned.

Elain steps closer to him, asking in a low voice. “Are you okay?” to which a curt, sharp nod and the softest blush of embarrassment is the only answer. Lucien snaps his fingers, drying Azriel’s clothes, which does earn a vocal “thank you” at least.

Lucien looks over his shoulder so he can rest his skeptic gaze on Jurian. “And you said you liked mermaids?”

“I said they’re not the haggling sort.” Jurian replies, then casts a somewhat amused glance at Azriel. “They just really dislike faeries.”

“Is that so.” Lucien deadpans. “I would never have guessed it.”

After enough time has passed that the adrenaline of the moment fades, Elain sits down on the slightly wet rocks, and toes off her shoes, dipping her feet into the water. She leans back, letting the cool air brush over her skin, play with locks of her hair. A short while later, someone comes to sit beside her. She doesn’t need to open her eyes to know it’s Lucien.

“Dawn is close by, isn’t it?” she asks.

“It is.”

“My sisters told me it’s beautiful. Can we visit, if we have the time?”

Lucien pauses, long enough that Elain suspects he is trying to find another smooth way to turn her down. She looks at him then, and Lucien seems to wrestle with his thoughts, the same withdrawn expression gracing his face as most time these days “I would like to – ”

“And you will.” Jurian cuts in firmly. “Even if everything goes well with Narben, we won’t magically stumble on the box today to march against Koschei. There’s nothing you can do right now, and if you go home you’re only going to brood over the ball and drive yourself– and all of us – up the wall. Take a damn break Lucien, you’ve more than earned it. And frankly, so has Elain.”

Lucien looks ready to argue, but snaps his mouth shut eventually, conceding Jurian’s point even if he doesn’t like it. Jurian claps his shoulder in camaraderie, and gestures to the waves. The same mermaid pops back and dumps the sword unceremoniously at their feet.

“It’s your problem now.” she says, her voice hoarse and raspy. She cradles a hand to her chest, and Elain notices a faint line of black crawling up from her fingertips, her partially obscured palm puckered with burns. “I will expect my payment by the next full moon. Do not tarry.”

And then she dips below the waves once more. Feyre gives Jurian an unimpressed look. “Let me guess. You expect me to supply the diamonds and the jeweler too.”

“You catch on quick, High Lady.”

“Asshole.”

All of them approach the sword cautiously, gathering around in a circle. The illustration had the right of it, Elain observes. The blade is dark as night and jagged to the point where it looks serrated, the hilt black as well but slightly corroded and rusted. It isn’t glowing though; in appearance it could be mistaken for any ordinary – if dramatically designed – sword. If not for… it feels wrong. It feels cold, and unsettling, like a breath on your neck when no one is behind you.

“That’s the sword alright.” Jurian confirms. Lucien and Feyre exchange looks and begin to work on unraveling Amarantha’s curses.

While they work, Elain goes to stand beside Azriel, asking how they’ve all been. He tells her that amidst all of this, Feyre has started shopping for baby clothes, and a brief smile flits across his face.

“She’s been feeling much better since you’ve talked. And the joy of our High Lady is charming to see.” he says. “Even Cassian is less sulky around her, and that’s impressive.”

Elain tries to steer clear of talks of his missions, but, ever-focused, the shadowsinger attempts to give her a report at least twice. When Elain pouts at him he shakes his head, though there is no heat in it.

“You’re as bad as Rhys.” he tells her. “I know my limits.”

“Do you? When was the last time you had a proper rest? When you got injured?” Elain’s eyes narrow. “Did you even rest when you were injured?”

“I haven’t exerted myself. I was only in the library and believe me the priestesses there were…” Something odd flashes in Azriel’s expression as he struggles to find the right adjective, a nonchalance so forced that it almost goes back around to being openly bashful “They were most helpful.”

Elain watches him carefully, feeling the beginnings of a smile. “Was there any one priestess that was particularly helpful?”

Azriel, trained spymaster of the Night Court, clears his throat and nods towards Lucien and Feyre. “I think they’re almost done there.”

Elain only smiles beatifically at him. “I’m glad. Truly.”

They both know she isn’t talking about the spell. They walk towards the others and watch in mute horror as – right after the spells fade – Jurian kicks the sword up and grabs it, twirling it in his hand. Lucien in particular looks like he is fighting back the urge to yell obscenities.

“What?” Jurian says. “We needed to test if it was safe, didn’t we?”

“Excruciating pain? Hands charred beyond measure? Does that part ring a bell too?”

“Eh, lost body parts before. Dying doesn’t seem to stick for me.”

”I am going to shove you into the sea. Let’s test if you can survive that too.”

“Your concern is noted.” he retorts, then twirls the blade around again. “It doesn’t do anything for me either.”

“Maybe we should each try to hold it?” Feyre suggests and, for a lack of better ideas, they do. Nothing happens for any of them, and at first Elain thinks the blade is about to reject her too, until… the same eerie feeling comes over her, gooseflesh erupting over her arms. She remembers the poor, unfortunate goblin merchant telling Amarantha that magical objects often have a mind of their own, and she understands what he meant. It’s not that it truly thinks or feels, but it does have a limited amount of will and curiosity, studying her from head to toe until it withdraws, dissatisfied with her but content.

It’s not a command exactly, but an impression, of flames as silver as Narben’s own.

“Oh, of course.” Elain breathes, her unease evaporating. “You want Nesta.”

Feyre’s mouth hangs open in disbelief. “How do you know that? And for that part, how does a sword dumped in the middle of the sea for three decades even know about Nesta?”

“Because I’ve just introduced them, silly!” Elain laughs, because it’s the most self-evident thing in the world. The others don’t seem to think so.

“Well, Elain’s lost it. That was bound to happen.” Jurian says, and then – ignoring the trio of displeased looks from everyone but Elain - turns towards Azriel and Feyre. “Okay so, you, take me home so we can stash this sword somewhere safe and you two – off to a break.”

Lucien gravitates towards her then, but still looks unenthusiastic. Feyre looks about equally displeased and Elain can tell she’s about to voice a protest – she never did like the idea of them together in any sense – but then her mouth shuts with a click and she only tells her that she’d love Dawn and that she hopes their trip will go well. And then they winnow away.

Lucien doesn’t move. He stares at the waves without seeing them and Elain’s gut churns. A trip might not be such a great idea, all things considered.

“We don’t have to go,” Elain tells him quietly “not if you don’t want to.”

“No, Jurian is right, much as I hate giving him credit for anything clever.” Lucien chuckles, turning back towards her. “We could use a break. Shall we go then?”

Elain gives him a look. He smiles at her, but his eyes are still dull, empty: another mask. Elain hates that. “I know you think you need to be the responsible one, holding the group together. But it’s obvious that you’re suffering Lucien. If you need to – if you want to, I would listen. You don’t have to carry this burden alone.”

Lucien’s smile goes tighter, and if he was a cat, his tail would certainly be lashing right now. “Tell me, does hypocrisy come naturally or did you have to practice in front of a mirror?”

Elain’s eyes go round with shock. She knows, of course she knows that Lucien has a sharp tongue and a spine of steel – but it has never stood in opposition to her before. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t play dumb. We both know you’re not. You know exactly what I mean.”

Elain wets her lips, forcing herself not to avert her eyes. Yes, yes she does know what he means and perhaps it was cowardly to pretend otherwise.

“I’ve felt it.” Lucien continues, the heat of his anger snuffed back to smouldering ashes. “I’ve felt it constantly, your suffering and misery, clawing at my heart. All this time, I had to pretend that I didn’t, that when I saw you smile as if nothing was wrong, I was fooled by it because you would have hated my sympathy.” he pauses, a wry laugh bubbling from his throat. “I asked Feyre once, after the new year, if you were alright. Care to guess what she asked me in turn?” Elain shakes her head mutely. No, no she doesn’t want to guess. “She asked, ‘why wouldn’t she be?’”

Jurian has teased him about it, hasn’t he? Him drunkenly monologuing on the eve of the new year? Elain hadn’t put much thought to what he meant, but she expected it to be something embarrassing, some way Lucien had made a fool of himself intoxicated. And it turns out that no, that wasn’t the case.

Lucien was simply miserable and concerned for her.

“I…” Elain says and then falls silent. She lowers herself to the rocks and pulls on her shoes, slowly, methodically, buying herself time to gather her thoughts. She remembers the moment, crystal clear. Celebrating the new year was always important for humans, but long-lived faeries don’t care for it, beyond offering polite salutations. Feyre, well and truly one of them now, didn’t think much of it either. Nesta, lost in the haze of anger and grief, shunned Elain’s attempts to reach out. And so she was all alone in her room, staring out the window feeling wretchedly lonely, murmuring well-wishes into the empty air as midnight struck.

“I think I did it on purpose.” Elain admits softly, a truth that she never liked to linger on. “I hated knowing I exposed you to my pain, but I think I was desperate for you to know too. To not be alone. I’m sorry; it was selfish of me, but I couldn’t stop. And I know I don’t always find it easy to confide in others either. But you have to know that I try. For you.”

Lucien sinks onto the rocks beside her. There’s no brittleness left to him now, only something… surprised. He tries to search her face, which is stubbornly turned away. “Why?”

“Because I want to.” Elain answers simply, watching the waves lick the rocks. “I don’t know what it means that the universe meant you for me, but I want it to mean that I can trust you. So I try to.”

“…Thank you.”

Elain turns to Lucien, fighting the instinct to plaster on a smile, to pretend everything is okay in the hopes of tricking everyone else into believing it too. The small pout on her face feels strangely foreign. “I’m worried about the ball too. I’m worried about my sisters, exposed in the ballroom. I’m worried about what will happen if they discover you. I’m worried that we’re taking these risks and we’ll discover nothing and we’ll have to resort to scrying and I’m worried about what it would mean if Koschei found us out, like the Cauldron did.”

Her smile now is rueful, commiserating. Lucien sighs, steeling himself.

“The last time I was at the Forest House,” he says “I was forced to watch my family murder the female I loved.” Elain stares at him, gasping in shock, eyes turned down in sympathy. There are a thousand things she wants to say, none adequate for the situation at hand. But she doesn’t interrupt him, not after he settled on talking. “They hacked her wings off, right in front of me. They didn’t make short work of it; Father never did when it came to teaching us a lesson. Jesminda never begged for mercy. Not once. She just looked into my eyes and told me that she loved me. Over and over again. I keep having nightmares about it.” Lucien says, voice going hoarse. “It’s my fault that she died and she still – She never damns me, never blames me, not even in my dreams. I wish she did.”

Lucien shakes his head. “Sometimes you’re there too. Crying helplessly on the floor, before my father slices your throat open. The Forest House is hell, Elain. I know what kind of person my father is and I still have to let the people I care about march towards their death. My fault. If something happens that’s my fault again.”

“Why would it,” Elain starts but reconsiders. “What happened with Jesminda was terrible, Lucien, and I can’t begin to say how sorry I am. But it was your family that hurt her, not you. It wasn’t your fault; and no matter what happens at the ball, it still won’t be your fault.”

“It was my fault.” Lucien breathes, low enough that it’s a whisper even to Elain’s enhanced hearing. “I was naïve. I was close with my brother Damien back then. When he discovered us, I didn’t think to lie, to hide from him. Like a fool, I told him that I was certain a mating bond was bound to snap between us at any moment, and that Jesminda and I made plans to leave the Court. I didn’t know he hated me, that he coveted the rapport I had with the people of the farmlands. He told our father everything. Jesminda was dead on the morrow. Ironic, I suppose, that not a week later I put Damien in his grave too.”

“Lucien, listen to me.” Elain says firmly, begging for him to hear her over his own self-loathing. She places a tentative hand on his knee, her fingers digging in like an anchor. “You loved and you trusted and that’s not a crime. What would Jesminda say, to hear you blame yourself over it?”

“She shouldn’t forgive me.”

“Ah-ah! But what would she say?”

There’s the tiniest sliver of a fond smile haunting Lucien’s lips as he thinks about it. “She’d cuff me over the head and call me a moron.”

Elain smiles softly. “Tell me about her.”

“You want me to talk about Jesminda? Why?”

“Death doesn’t seem so final while a memory lives.” perhaps it would do him some good, Elain thinks, to remember things other than the end. She is right. Lost in memory, that sliver of a smile grows, tinged with pain but love too, such love, undimmed by tragedy and the steady march of time.

“She was the heart of the forest. Wild, free, and full of mischief.” Lucien says finally. “She was loud, brash, utterly fearless. But Cauldron, she was never able to sit still for longer than two seconds! ‘Lucien, put those boring books down. I’m more interesting than crops, aren’t I?’” he says, imitating a whine, then lets out a melancholy laugh. “She was like a manic butterfly, but she could make everyone believe they could fly with her too, if they tried.”

Elain swallows. Beside that portrait, she feels a little inadequate, but she does her best to shove such unworthy reaction aside. Jesminda deserves better than for her memory to be tarnished by petty jealousy. “She sounds very special.”

“She was.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Lucien nods at her, accepting the words. Elain takes a deep breath, her fingers relaxing, but not quite letting go of Lucien yet.

“You know what gets me through the worry?” Elain starts. “I trust you. I trust all of us. We’ll have to take some risks, if not now, then afterwards. What matters is that whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together. We’ll all look out for each other. Doing our best is the best we can do.”

“I know.”

“And for the record,” Elain continues, feeling a little impish. She sniffs primly, deciding to be theatric, if only to see him smile again. “I want you to know that if anything happens to me – and I mean anything from a stubbed toe to a, a slit throat,” she says, stumbling over referring to his nightmare for the briefest of moments “and I hear you blame yourself over it, I shall be very cross with you. I may even decide to haunt you!”

Lucien’s lips quirk on their own account. “Ah, but then I have to succumb to such self-loathing. How could I deprive myself of your lovely face and impossible ideas?”

Elain chuckles and knocks into him playfully with her shoulder, some of the tension ebbing away from both of them. There’s a silence for a moment, save for the gentle lapping of waves, and the steady heartbeat Elain sometimes has to strain not to hear.

“You may be the bravest person I know, Elain Archeron.”

Elain blushes and moves to adjust her hair, then abruptly stops when she realizes there is no stray lock for her fiddle with. “I’m not,” she protests “I’m not brave. It’s only… I’ve wasted too much of my time being afraid and sad. I’m, Lucien, I’m happy now. And if any of our moments may be the last, I would want to keep being happy. That doesn’t make me brave, that just makes me – ”

“Brave, Elain. There’s nothing braver than holding onto hope.”

Elain stares at him, a little wonderstruck. She’s been complimented before. Sometimes, it was a little placating, like her father touching her cheek, assuring her that her – terribly misshapen – wood carving was lovely. Sometimes, it was like Graysen telling her that she looked breathtaking in her new gown, with a pointed silence that awaited her blushing gratitude.

Lucien offered her the greatest compliment that Elain’s heart could yearn for – and he did it without realizing. It was not spoken as flattery but as an objective statement of truth and that makes it all the sweeter.

They’re friends but they’re something infinite, something beyond words. He is irrevocably etched into the fabric of her very soul and he is in her heart by choice and for the first time in a long while both parts of her are in perfect accord.

Elain wants to kiss him. Elain wants to kiss him and she wants that kiss to mean something. (Forever, that’s what she wants it to mean. Forever and stay with me). She blinks a bit, face heating as she looks away. Now is, perhaps, not the right time for the conversation that would have to precede that.

But as Lucien stands and offers her his hand, she thinks soon. Soon, it may be.

Chapter Text

Nesta feels like she’s going to die.

She’s holding onto the windowsill for dear life, not entirely convinced that she won’t collapse into a heap on the floor if she eases her grip. She takes deep breaths through her nose, occasionally glancing at the practice dummies across the room. Some of them have frostbite at shoulders, stomachs, the fire she has spent the past days finessing into elegant arcs and blasts veering ever off-mark. Eris offered a break earlier and Nesta, feeling strangely light-headed, agreed without protest. Her own decidedly lacking combativeness should have been warning enough.

Nesta feels pathetic and miserable, and though she tries to tell herself she’s endured greater agonies than this, that’s hardly comforting when her insides feel like they’re being hacked open by a rusty saw.

Feyre has warned her about how unpleasant Fae periods are. Nesta, who has always been cursed with incredibly painful periods, didn’t quite take her seriously before, not until it happened. It didn’t last as long as it should have then, which is the only silver lining she can think of. She doesn’t know if it was due to being Made and so recently or – she thinks with bitter humor – being severely malnourished, but instead of dying of agony for a full week, Nesta spent four days in her bed, soaked through with her sweat and tears, alone, occasionally passing out due to the pain, sometimes clambering out with gritted teeth so she could catch a bite or a drink. Her landlord caught her once, and by the terrified look in his eyes, she knew he was considering tattling on her to Feyre, so she made her eyes flash with a silver fire to dissuade such notions very, very quickly.

Nesta knows she should move at the very least, to get a linen rag and stop bleeding over her skirt. However, movement would mean moving and moving would mean another wave of excruciating pain. In other words: later.

“This is ridiculous.” she mutters to herself angrily, fingers clenching tightly on the sill. She needs to pull herself together for the training, to catch her breath for a moment. Now that she knows what to expect, it should be easier. Once she’s used to it, she’ll be alright. She will have to be.

Unfortunately, time is exactly what she isn’t afforded as the door opens and in walks Eris. He frowns the moment he enters, until his nose twitches – then he winces in sympathy.

“Cauldron give you strength.” he says, walking towards her. “Do you want me to winnow you home?”

“No.” Nesta grits out. “Why would I?”

Eris arches a delicate eyebrow. “Because you’re clearly in an extreme amount of pain right now?”

“Give me a second. I’ll pull myself together.”

“I’m sure you could dear, but what you should do is rest.”

“No.”

She’s not weak. She’s not an invalid. If he could offer her a few minutes to wallow, she could make it work. She could.

“Stop crying this instant.” Grandmamma commanded imperiously. Nesta couldn’t raise her tearstained eyes from her reddened knuckles, the way a line of blood welled from the crack in the skin.

“But it hurts.”

Grandmamma grabbed her chin roughly, her grip bruising enough that Nesta whimpered, despite knowing she ought not to. “Crying about your mistakes won’t make you less of a failure. Do it again, and properly this time.”

When Eris touches her chin, she flinches instinctively, but his touch is gentle, tilting her head rather than yanking it. “If you insist, we can practice once you feel better. But you need to rest first. Now, now, don’t argue. I can make this go away faster if you let me – Autumn heir, remember? Fire in our blood? The heat should help with the cramps. You’ll let me take care of you, lie down a bit, and then you can go back to setting training dummies on fire and who knows, maybe we could even attempt a proper spar. What do you say?”

Nesta doesn’t want to say yes, because that would be conceding defeat. She also doesn’t want to say no, because she is aware that she wouldn’t last long into an actual session and her pride would not survive that either. So she jerks her head instead in a motion that could possibly be read as reluctant acquiescence. Maybe.

They stand there for a moment or two in silence, until Eris asks, not cruelly, but with a hint of laughter in his voice: “Do you want me to carry you?”

Nesta’s eyes flash, but she doesn’t feel her power pressing against her to lash out. No, this time it is plain exasperation. “No.”

When she still doesn’t move, Eris reaches for her hands and gingerly pries them from their death grip on the windowsill. He doesn’t let go of her hands even when they’re free, but tugs on them with a similar gentleness. Nesta nods to him and braces herself as she pushes away and starts to walk.

She spends the walk through the manor in a pain-fueled daze, vaguely registering Eris opening and closing doors to ruined bedrooms. All of them are in various states of disarray that Eris clearly deems beneath them – one, Nesta notes with a shock that punctures her daze, is overgrown with thorny vines, writhing still, as if they were alive and vengeful. Yet none, that she notices, ever tries to slither through the threshold: the door closes with a clean click as they move on, but not before Nesta catches glimpse of a trail of painted rose petals on the window.

When they finally find a suitable room it’s in a shockingly more pristine state than all the others. There are no claw marks, no upturned furniture, shredded pillows, nor broken glass. True, it’s barren: there’s a worktable near the window, covered by dust, shelves that lie empty, a wardrobe with a slightly askew door as if it was cleared out recently. There is nothing left here of the person who used to occupy these rooms, nothing at all: save that the walls, and the bedsheets, and the limply hanging curtain all play in various shade of Autumn colors.

Nesta doesn’t ponder on the peculiar, twisted affection betrayed by the careful ransacking of this one room. She lets go of Eris to curl up on the bed, and starts to take deep breaths through her nose. The door opens and closes once more. Nesta opens her eyes blearily and almost curses the male out for leaving after convincing her to accept his help, but Eris returns barely a few minutes later, with a cotton rag and a puffy baby pink dress (that he pilfered from gods know where) both of which he hands over to her wordlessly.

He has seen her naked before, but Nesta is really glad he gives her privacy now.

“How bad is it?” he asks, his back turned to her. “Do you need a potion? I don’t know if Tamlin has any, with his penchant for artful suffering and all, but I could pop into town.”

Nesta, in the process of lying back down again, nearly freezes. Don’t you dare leave me alone would perhaps be the more honest answer, yet a single and stubborn “No.” will have to suffice.

Eris turns around, a familiar and annoying smile on his face. “Are you going to say ‘No’ to everything I ask now?”

“I will, if you keep asking stupid questions. Now get in the bed.” she grumbles. “You said you would help.”

“As you wish.”

Eris settles down behind her, lying on top of the blankets like her, and reaches out, beginning to massage away her cramps with his warm hands. It does help ease her muscles and the pain, if only a little bit. Just enough that she can think beyond the suffering and manage full, coherent sentences.

Eris starts to talk to her, about the Forest House’s defenses, about which of his brothers she should avoid and why, what pitfalls they can expect in their plans. He never tires of hearing himself talk and Nesta is glad of it, because she feels like she’s doing something meaningful still. She’s not just wasting away in bed but gathering meaningful intel. It helps. He helps.

But as forthcoming he is about issuing warnings about his brothers (“Do not ever imbibe anything that Phobos even looked at. Disturbingly quick-fingered, that one.” or “Don’t concern yourself with Aiden. He’ll know everything by the end of the night anyway.”) any time she musters the strength to ask him something personal about his family (even a simple question, such as if he gets along with any of his brothers) she meets the same, elusive wall as she had when she questioned him about his desire to be High Lord.

There are certain things Eris dearly wishes to avoid talking about. And for once, Nesta finds herself his inverted mirror. Because there are things she desperately wishes to talk about, but can’t make herself push the words out, not unless he asks. And he never does.

There’s something she wants to trust him with, the rotten secret at the core of her that feels like a tangible weight, pulling her under. It’s been at the forefront of her mind ever since the nightmare, something she can’t tell anyone but him – because, selfishly, she thinks he’d understand. Because she needs someone to absolve her and he’s the only one who might.

Nesta appreciates that he leaves her alone, appreciates that her boundaries are respected. She is glad Eris doesn’t try to insinuate himself into her life, not even to ask why she and Elain left the Night Court. But she… something in her heart must be still soft and tender after everything, because she still wishes he’d be interested.

“Don’t you ever want to ask me something?” it slips out and Nesta curses herself because that’s almost as bad as volunteering the information on purpose, leaving too much of her heart exposed. She feels Eris freeze behind her, his fingers stopping their lazy ministrations. Seconds pass, deafeningly loud before he reacts.

“I didn’t think you would want me to.”

“Of course I don’t.” Nesta bites out - a lie - and moves to roll away, to shake Eris’ hand off her. But he holds on, a small entreaty for her to stay. Nesta, in the grasp of pain and the ache of vulnerability, does.

“Alright then.” Eris says and then pauses. “What’s your favorite food?”

Nesta stares straight ahead, then turns around slowly so she can face Eris and stare blankly at him instead. He meets her gaze head on, quite serious. That just makes Nesta infinitely more disbelieving.

“What’s my favorite food? Out of everything that’s what you want to know?”

“It’s a practical question.”

“Why, planning to bake for me?”

“If you’re a good girl, why not.” Eris grins at her and Nesta groans, swatting him in the arm. Predictably, that just cheers him some more. “So what was I supposed to ask?”

Nesta considers him, the dimples on his face as he smiles, his amber eyes that seem to see straight into her. She wets her lips and says, voice low as if she didn’t want the afterlife to overhear: “My father. Ask me about my father.”

“What was your father like, Nesta dear?”

Nesta takes a deep, shuddering breath. She wanted this and yet it still makes her fingers tremble, her heart beat triple time. She won’t ever have the right words for this, but speak she must all the same, before she drowns in her unspoken lament and misplaced hate.

“My father was complicated.” she starts. The beginning is as good a place as any. “He wasn’t an unkind man, but he was docile, weak-willed. I think that’s why Mother married him, so she’d have her way in everything. He doted on Feyre and Elain, but me… I was my mother’s creature, hers to nurture to, to mold. My Grandmamma used to beat my hands bloody if I so much as made the wrong move during my dance lessons. Mother always said it was for my own good and secretly, desperately, I hoped Papa would notice the scars, that he would ask, but he never did. And when Mother was dying, he let her go. He gave up on her, just like that. When we lost all of our money, he gave up on that too. The debtors came and they shattered his leg and he laid down and never got up.

“I’ve resented him for that. I’ve resented him for so long, for so many things. Too many things.” Nesta swallows, fighting back the afterimages that linger on the back of her eyelids. That look. The way his neck bent after that crack. “He came during the final battle against Hybern. He raised an army in our name and then he died, right in front of my eyes, saying he loved me. He died and in that moment I still hated him. And I keep seeing it, that look in his eyes, the truth of his words and I hate myself. What kind of daughter… what kind of monster am I?”

Eris doesn’t speak, only reaches over to wipe a teardrop from Nesta’s cheeks. Her mouth parts; she didn’t even realize one had fallen. But now that one has, she can barely stop them from rolling down, one after another, perfectly silent. Nesta doesn’t deserve to weep and shudder, to inspire a need to comfort. Eris catches every tear all the same.

He opens his mouth, takes the breath to speak several times but doesn’t, aware that he only has once chance to get through to her and intent on making the most of it.

“Family is complicated.” he tells her, surprisingly solemn for once. She remembers his crisscrossing scars and thinks that this is an understatement. “Your father loved you and he let you down and he hurt you and he saved you: all of these things are true. I can’t tell you how the scales are balanced. Only you get to make that choice. Not me, not your sisters, not that pack of wolves at the Night Court. You.”

“I’ve never wanted him to die.” Nesta admits in a broken whisper. “I don’t know how I feel about him, but I never wanted him to die.”

“I know.”

Something in her writhes, needing to be contrary. Needing to challenge that easy acceptance. That easy acceptance she isn’t sure she deserves, even if she desperately craves it. “How can you be so sure? I was glad, you know, relieved when my grandmother died.”

“Understandably. That old bat had it coming.”

“Don’t joke about this!”

“I’m not.” Eris tells her simply. He takes her hand and kisses her palm, right below where the faint outline of her scar still remains. Nesta’s breath hitches. “You’re being too hard on yourself. I know a lot of monsters and trust me, you are nothing like us.”

“You’re not a monster, Eris.” Nesta scoffs instinctively, her indignation pushing through the hurt. She doesn’t care what others may say or believe, the male himself included. She knows him better than that now. He may have blood on his hands, but don’t they all? Who is she to judge him for surviving?

Eris gives her a smile, but his eyes are tinged with a sweet sort of sorrow. “Your faith in me is misplaced, but appreciated.”

And then like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he moves to cup her cheek and kisses her. And, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Nesta allows herself to sink into his touch.

It’s not like the kisses they shared when they spent the night together, desperate and frantic. This isn’t building up to anything. It’s a kiss of comfort, of reassurance. It doesn’t ignite anything in her, but it fills her with a different sort of warmth, like she is made of taffy and melting away. It’s so easy to lose herself in the feeling of – if not being loved – then being wanted. Desired. It’s strange how his unpredictable presence helps soothe her, how readily she allows him close even now.

She wants to fight off the pain, to push it back and focus only on Eris’ lips on hers, the soft sigh that escapes him and this damned serenity that she feels taking root in her chest, but the cramping comes in force and when she winces, Eris notices.

“Are you sure you don’t need that potion?”

“I told you, I’m fine.” Nesta replies with a glare, which only earns her Eris fleetingly stroking her cheek before insisting on holding her again. Nesta feels, beneath all the pain once again sparking up to shred her insides, a little lighter, having confessed her fears to someone. It made her feelings seem more tangible, less a shunned secret she must guard with her every breath. It settled something in her, something which may, eventually, help her move forward and heal.

She can’t say thank you. She doesn’t want to. But she can do something else.

“Eris?” she starts, burrowing her head deeper into the pillow. Her voice is laced with humor as she tells him: “Chocolate cake. I’m rather partial to chocolate cake.”

Eris laughs, one of those genuine laughs that she has only rarely had the privilege to hear.

“Duly noted.”

“Of all the Courts, which one do you find the most beautiful and the dreariest? Excluding the ones where you lived, because that would be cheating.”

Elain’s voice is bright and joyful as she poses her question. She is walking backwards on the cobblestones, nearly skipping, her face aching from smiling so much. Several denizens of the Dawn Court, all wearing tunics of pale, pastel colors, stare at her a little bit as they pass, but ultimately all of them go about their own business.

Some of them have mechanical arms, or legs, while others have patterns along their bare wrist in a clearly decorative way. A female walking past Elain has a smudge of black across her cheeks and curiously-shaped goggles resting atop her head.

There are many strange noises around them, some that Elain recognizes some she does not: whizzing, twinkling, the clanging of a hammer and occasionally a loud explosion, in the wake of which magical flames go flickering to the sky like fireflies. Behind those sparkling lights, Elain can sometimes spot tiny ships sailing across the air as if they weighed nothing.

The buildings are all simple and refined, hewn from sunstone which looks iridescent as the sun catches it, or a magnificent marble. Some of them are more grandiose, adorned with gargoyles or statues of various Fae, but some are modest, clearly stores, with blackboards at the front promising discounts. They passed a vendor selling jewellery soon after they had arrived, and Elain instantly tugged on Lucien’s jacket sleeve to browse. When he saw her eying a small bracelet with a flower with its petals opening and closing to reveal a small compartment, Lucien fastened it around her wrist, and gave her a conspiratorial smile.

“I wonder what fine dust could fit in there.” he remarked casually, and as Elain twisted the bracelet around with newfound wonder, he walked off to pay for it.

Thus far, Elain has been most enchanted by a large tower with a domed top, which rose up, up straight towards the sky, with spiral staircase winding its way to the entrance in the air, its railings covered in flowering vines. The observatory, as Lucien has explained.

They’re in one of the more industrial parts of the Dawn Court. Lucien offered to take her to the endlessly verdant countryside, in view of the palace atop the clouds that her sisters had visited. The most beautiful sight in Dawn, he said. Elain was tempted, but eventually changed her mind. She told Lucien to take her to the place he liked the most first which was this: a charming little town, close to the capital, where apparently his friend Nuan, the one who fixed his eye, lives. As quaint as the place is, Elain gets the feeling that Nuan contributes more to his fondness for it than any stunning observatories.

“Dawn, for most beautiful.” Lucien answers, eyes taking in every detail of the lively town. “Except for the heavily industrialized towns in the south, those are too depressing for my tastes. The dreariest… Winter, I would have to say.”

“Because it’s cold?” Elain asks cheekily. Lucien huffs a small laugh at her impertinent tone.

“Would you think less of me if I admitted to it?”

Elain cackles, the noise merry and entirely unladylike. “I would not. Viviane was so lovely to me during the war, but I can’t say I am keen to visit Winter any time soon either.”

“Which would you like to visit next then?”

Elain’s smile softens, from humor to gratitude at the implied offer. As she thinks on it, she falls back in step with Lucien, looping her arm with his. “Summer, as predictable as that sounds. That is if Tarquin… well…”

Lucien grins at her floundering and her slightly flustered expression. “Won’t try to execute you for the stunt Feyre pulled? Or was it stunts, plural? I can’t keep track.”

“That. Or. Those.”

They’re drawing near their destination, a large, circular stage, raised slightly above ground, already bustling with a small crowd tucked into a modest booth near the low end of it. Lucien and her climb the stairs, when they hear a loud whistle, and a shadow soon falls over them.

One of the small sky ships, with bloated sails overhead, lowers itself atop the platform, and to Elain’s surprise the landing is so gentle, that the stage doesn’t even shake on impact. Some of the passengers begin to climb off the stairs attached to the side of the ship, and Lucien pulls her along to follow the crowd moving from the booth to the stairs, waiting to embark.

There are a few seats left available on the ship, but Elain ignores them in favor of walking to the railing so she’ll have a better view. There are few sooty looking faeries, some High Fae some not, who walk around the ship inspecting various parts of it. Once all of them are settled and the inspection is through, their leader whistles again. Two winged Fae – peregryn, if Elain recalls correctly – shoot into the air at the command and hover nearby, alert.

As they ascend, the ship lurches a little and Elain grabs onto the railing instinctively. They rise, higher and higher, until they stop and then the ship begins to sail through the air, smooth as a knife gliding through butter. The wind plays with her locks and when Elain takes a look around she gasps in stunned joy.

Sprawling below them is the charming town they left behind. There’s another burst of light, which Elain can now see are indeed minor explosions, conducted in the courtyard of one of the buildings she’s passed today. Looking further ahead, small from this distance but still gleaming and drawing the eye, is the palace of the High Lord. Far off but still visible, she can see the expanse of green that is the rolling hills of Dawn.

Elain grabs Lucien’s hand and animatedly starts gesturing to the sights around them. Velaris is bustling and huge and whole and prosperous, but this, this is unlike anything she’s seen before. Lucien, though clearly used to the wonders of magic and innovation, indulges her, and points out landmarks for her to see.

There, a library, smaller than the ones in Day, but still admirable in its collection of scientific texts. There, in the distance, marring the landscape, are towns where no light shines, from which all Elain can see are cracked stone ruins of a place that once was, but no more. She averts her eyes from the desolation and focuses on Lucien gesturing to somewhere even further, so far that she has to stretch her imagination to see it, where the famous hanging gardens reside. All the while they’re inching ever closer to a building larger than any other in town. It looks like a bronze castle, with its spiraling towers. Its large bay windows are full of geometric shapes, mechanically rotating. As they descend, Elain catches sight of clusters of faeries, young and old alike, sitting on the staircases and chatting amiably.

“The University.” Lucien tells her with a smile. “Nuan teaches there.”

“Doesn’t she work for the High Lord?” Elain asks, confused. Lucien laughs.

“Nuan could work every single job available in Dawn and it still would leave her restless. But teaching… she loves that the most. Herbology, chemistry and alchemy are her favored subjects, as it happens.” Elain’s eyes spark with interest, which Lucien clearly expected. “I could introduce you, if you wanted to exchange notes.”

“I would love that.” Elain agrees, as the ship docks. “But first, you promised to show me a bakery.”

After disembarking the ship, Lucien leads her down winding streets. This part of the town is, if possible, even more busy, with a sea of people coming to and fro. Some are animatedly telling stories with friends. Some stop to listen to a street musician play, and a male shrieks happily as his partner grabs his arm for an impromptu dance. Elain smiles at the sight, lingering only for a short moment, before she catches up with Lucien.

The building they enter is rustic and charming on the outside, with large windows to let in the light. But on the inside… wisterias hang from the ceiling, filling the air with the sweet scent of flowers intermingled with the rich aroma of pastries. On the far wall, there is a twinkling waterfall and flying overhead and nestled among the greenery are small, mechanical birds, warbling a pretty tune.

She stops, stock still and stares at Lucien. “We need to bring Nesta next time too.” she murmurs, laughing in delight. “If the desserts are good, you’ll be her favorite person in no time.”

“And you? Do you like it?”

This is extravagant and beautiful and strange, but most importantly, this is something she hasn’t seen before. A new wonder, a reminder that she has a dozen more new experiences waiting for her: that her life isn’t over, just different now.

Elain nods, bounces on her heels, and presses a hasty kiss to Lucien’s scarred cheek. “I love it. Thank you.”

Lucien stares at her afterwards with a surprise that quickly morphs into a mirth and Elain just knows he has a teasing quip on the tip of his tongue. She recalls in that moment how dearly she wished to kiss him at the sea and she makes a beeline for the pastries before Lucien can offer any remark, hoping against hope she turned around quickly enough to hide the pink across her cheek.

Elain orders a pistachio swirl, while Lucien picks a chocolate one, both of them taking their order with a large cup of hot chocolate, topped with generous amount of whipped cream. It’s delicious and, raised as a proper lady, she takes extra care not to make any inappropriate noises of appreciation. Lucien, infuriating as he is, shows no such decorum when he meticulously - indecently, her brain hisses - licks off some of the cream that got on his fingers.

Elain says nothing, because, doe-like, she has the oddest notion that if she doesn’t twitch or make a noise, he’ll not notice her. But because none of the gods seem to like her, Lucien obviously does. He gives her an unrepentant smirk, which only goes to show that even if he wasn’t being a menace on purpose, he isn’t averse to it in the slightest.

With warm ears, Elain chucks a napkin at him all the same, muttering about uncivilized scoundrels. Lucien laughs loud enough that a couple from a nearby table looks at them with surprise.

The sun is slowly setting outside, the lamps on the street flickering faintly to life. Elain is dabbing at her lips with her napkin, hyperaware of the point of contact where her ankle presses against Lucien’s. She knocked into him accidentally at some point, as she was fussing about in her seat, and then sort of… stayed there. It is comfortable. Or rather, it makes her feel pleasantly bubbly, like several cups of good wine does, but without the bitter aftertaste or the tipsy haze.

“Tomorrow,” Elain starts, eager, but a little bashful. After all this, her offer will seem seem so meager in comparison. “if we have time, would you go riding with me? I can’t show you the wonders of the human realm, because I haven’t seen much of it. But I could… show you where I lived. If you’d like.”

Lucien grins and to Elain’s relief the excitement seems sincere, rather than pitying. “I would love that. And don’t worry, after we dispose of the threat on the Continent, I fully intend on bugging Vassa into giving us a tour. You’re welcome to join.”

“I would love that.” she echoes.

They visit Nuan afterwards, walking in the glow of lamplights towards the University. It’s even bigger up close, practically towering over them. The inside of the place is also rich bronze, the walls shimmering, engraved with intricate spirals, but lacking other ornamentations. Despite the late hour, several people in elaborate robes are still milling about, some familiar enough with Lucien to offer greetings.

They find Nuan in her office, sorting through papers. When Lucien clears his throat, her head snaps up, first frowning, then clearing at the sight of her friend. They shake hands and Nuan good-naturedly asks what brought them to the Dawn Court, her eyes lingering over Elain.

“Nuan,” Lucien starts with a smile “may I introduce to you my good friend, Elain Archeron?”

Elain brightens at that address, friend rather than mate, a title she won by merit rather than fate, and shakes Nuan’s offered hand “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“Elain here,” Lucien nudges her forward cheekily “is rather interested in potion-making.”

Now Nuan’s gaze turns from polite interest to genuine curiosity. “Oh? Are you?”

“I am. Lucien is making it sound like I’m something of an expert, but we’re really only beginners.”

“’We’?” Nuan echoes, gaze shrewd on Lucien. “You’ve been helping her? Cauldron boil us, yes child, you were right to come here. What do you need? A lecture? Detailed graphs? I have everything.”

Lucien snorts. “Your vote of confidence in me, Nuan is much appreciated.”

“I call it as I see it.” Nuan replies easily, then turns back to Elain. “I would love to talk theory with you. What are you researching?”

“Well… right now… ash wood.”

There’s silence for a moment as Nuan blinks. Then she whizzes past Elain to a bookshelf and throws one book to the floor and then another, walks to the cluster of books on her desk and starts frantically browsing those too. Elain furrows her brows in concern.

“Is everything okay?”

“It will be in a moment. A-ha!” Nuan cries and appears with a large tome. She blows the dust off its surface and presents it to Elain. “This will take some time, so sit. What stages are you at, what are you trying to achieve.”

“I… uh…” Elain glances towards Lucien, who shrugs, seeming to take great enjoyment from the whirlwind of the enfolding situation. He sits down in Nuan’s office chair with a carefree manner.

“Feel free to discuss it to your hearts’ content. That’s why we came here in the first place.”

“Won’t you be bored?” she asks and cringes at how blunt she sounded just now. Lucien gives her grin.

“I knew what I was getting myself into when I introduced you two. I’ll live.”

With another smile, Elain nods, and like a soldier marching into battle turns back towards Nuan. She can’t say she understood… all of it. Or most of it. But she understood some of it and that already makes her feel somewhat successful in her endeavour.

The moon has taken the sun’s place by the time they leave and Elain feels dizzy, like she’s been sat in a chair and spun around fast for hours. Lucien takes one look at her frazzled state, as she climbs down the University’s steps, looking ahead at nothing and lets out a full belly laugh.

“She’s fried your brain, hasn’t she?”

“Utterly and completely.” Elain admits, stifling a yawn. She grabs hold of his arm, and nestles close to his side as she walks, so she can rest her eyes a bit. Oh, she may have a headache coming on, on top of her exhaustion. “Let’s go home now.”

Perhaps emboldened by her open affection, perhaps just because the darkness is setting in, Lucien automatically puts his arm around her. He presses a kiss to the top of her head and she arches into it sleepily.

“Yes, let’s go home now.”

Chapter Text

It's dark out, by the time Nesta gets home. Eris has insisted she take an unholy amount of potions before they winnowed. The pain having reached its peak late afternoon (and the prospect of getting potions and Eris leaving her alone not going hand in hand anymore) made her a little more compliant.

She still feels like death but also extremely drowsy, which is good. Despite her half-hearted conviction to get back on her feet and continue training, Nesta slept through a large chunk of the day. Most of the time she woke, she found Eris beside her, writing up notes, sketching maps, patrol routes, traps, everything they’d need to prepare for the ball. If he did have to leave in the meantime - which happened twice to Nesta’s knowledge - he left a note on her pillow. “Try not to miss me too much”, one of them said. Nesta rolled her eyes and groaned, but even she knew that she was fighting back a smile.

When they reach the manor, Nesta detangles herself a bit from Eris - most of her weight is supported by him right now and she will not let go of him unless necessary – to turn the handle and allow him access into the wards as well.

Their entrance draws surprised and startled looks: Elain and Lucien’s grow into understanding concern quick enough but Vassa and Jurian seem perplexed.

“What even happened to you?” Jurian asks with a frown.

Eris gives him a blank look and a polite, courtier’s smile. “Nesta is feeling poorly. Elain, be a lovely sister and help her to bed, will you?”

Elain rushes to her side and hooks a hand under her arm, taking her like a sack of potatoes from Eris. This feels extremely undignified, which Nesta does complain about under her breath. Eris, compassionate as ever, only snickers and makes shooing motions.

Only once the door is shut behind them, does Elain, sitting on the edge of Nesta’s bed, ask, quietly “Are you feeling really badly?”

Nesta lies face down, and sighs into her pillow. She can’t wait for this nightmare to end. “I am.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Not much training happened.” Nesta admits bitterly. “I’ve slept through most of the day. Now I am dosed full of potions. I’ll live.”

“Did you stay in Spring all this time, in pain?” Elain asks, surprised. “Why didn’t you come home?”

Nesta thinks about her stubbornness, the excruciating pain of moving, and then she thinks about the comforting embrace she spent most the day cocooned in.

“I didn’t feel up to it.” she answers. Then, before Elain can offer another empty platitude or worse, ask questions, she carries on. “How was your quest? With the mermaids and the sword.”

“Oh! It went well! Or rather, the mermaid did drag Azriel underwater for a smidge, but other than that she was really helpful! The sword is safe now, but it doesn’t respond to any of us. I think you should try, it seemed to like you!” Elain sucks in a deep breath. “Goodness me, I don’t mean you should try now! We can figure it out once you’re feeling better.”

Nesta takes another deep breath and flips to her side, eyes still closed. “Okay.”

“And then Lucien and I visited Dawn! Not where you and Feyre were, a different town, and he got me a bracelet, and we travelled on a skyship and there was this bakery – ”

“Elain.” Nesta cuts in, yawning deeply, her voice slurred by sleepiness. “I’m really tired.”

“Oh.” Elain says quickly, and Nesta can hear the disappointment behind the words, the awkwardness. “Right. Sorry.”

The bed rattles once more, as Elain attempts to leave. Nesta holds out an arm to prevent her, blearily opening her eyes for this, to make sure her meaning is received. “No. I meant. I’m really tired, so you may have to tell me all of this again tomorrow.”

Nesta sees understanding dawn on Elain’s expression and her sister hops back down with a bright smile. “Ah, okay. I don’t mind that.”

Elain begins her rambling once again. Predictably, Nesta starts dozing off in the middle, around the time they board the skyships. She doesn’t hear words after a point, but can still make out the excitement in Elain’s voice and lets that lull her into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

Luckily, Nesta seems to feel better the next day. Or rather, she stomps out of her room while they’re having breakfast, picks up the sword which lights up with an eerie silver glow mirrored in her eyes, then promptly drops the sword and makes a beeline towards the table, demolishing an entire plate of waffles. Then she leans into the table, murmuring against it, curses and prayers in equal measure.

Elain rubs at her shoulders in sympathy. “Will you be okay for the ball?”

Nesta grumbles something into the table. Elain hums, and prompts her to repeat it. Nesta raises her glassy eyes. “Was shorter last time too. I’ll live.”

Elain nods automatically and then freezes, the words catching up to her. “Last time? What do you mean ‘last time’?”

Nesta lifts her head a bit and opens her mouth and then closes it just as quickly and lets her head bang against the table again. “I’m too tired to argue.”

Elain’s face pinches in concern. She hugs Nesta, which, in their awkward position, looks more like she’s lying on top of her. Nesta lets out tiny noises of protest, too weak to properly send her away.

It hurts to know that Nesta suffered alone, that she was so angry at them all that she never sent for them, never even let them know. But, Elain reflects, rubbing one last soothing circle between her shoulder blades before she lets her go, Nesta’s here now. She’s letting them take care of her – albeit begrudgingly – now.

So that’s what Elain does. She apologetically asks Lucien to reschedule their trip, which he seemed to have expected anyway. She enlists his help in writing up the notes of Nuan’s lecture that she was too tired to write up last night, and continues working on their sleeping powder. Occasionally, just so she isn’t overbearing, she goes to Nesta’s bedroom to bring her a glass of water, and, if she can stomach it, food. When it gets worse, she stays in, wiping Nesta’s face with a wet rag, or telling her about the improving progress on the sleeping powder, or puzzling over a letter Nuan sent her with tips (that were more confusing than helpful) to distract her, much like how Nesta used to read her books in the early days after being Made.

When Nesta stubbornly claws her way out of the bedroom to the bathroom and then gets as far as the couch in her return journey it’s Jurian that grabs her and carries her back to her bed. Mindful of Nesta’s need for privacy, it’s Vassa that helps Elain change the sweat and blood-stained sheets, and it’s Lucien who pops into an apothecary to get Nesta an army’s worth of potions, to help dose her to sleep when the pain gets overwhelming.

Nesta may complain about their fussing, but Elain can see the relief in her face too. So she doesn’t hover, not overmuch, but lets her sister know they’re there for her.

The next days pass in much similar fashion, until, surprisingly, a couple of hours to noon, two days before the ball, their wards ripple to announce an unexpected visitor.

“Eris?” Lucien asks, eyebrows arched at the figure trailing in after Elain. “I thought you were called back to Autumn already for the festivities.”

“I was.”

“Please don’t tell me you have another stack of notes for us. Jurian will mutiny if has to read another page.”

Elain’s lips curl into a grin. “He’s not even coming. He doesn’t have to go through it all if he doesn’t want to.”

Lucien lowers his voice to a mock conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tell him, but I think he’s worried.”

Elain giggles, eyes sparkling. But Eris only shakes his head.

“No, no more notes to bore your apparently illiterate general. Honestly Lucien, as selfless as I am,” ‘selfless?’ Lucien mouths with great incredulity at the boldness of that claim. Eris carries on as if he hasn’t noticed. “I do have interests outside saving the world.”

“Do you now.” Lucien asks flatly. “And which one of them lured you to our doorstep on this previously pleasant day?”

Nesta, who was well enough to be bothered by her sweat-stained body and has gathered her energy to take a shower, chooses this moment to pass by. Her hair messy and curling from the steam, she stares at Eris for a moment and then simply arches a finger for him to follow as shuffles her way back to her room. Eris laughs and then smirks at Lucien.

“Sorry brother, duty calls.” then he gives a more serious look towards Elain. “She’ll claw my eyes out if I bother her too much, don’t worry.”

Before Elain could figure out what she could possibly reply to that, he hurries after Nesta. Lucien gives her a slow look, like he’s still processing. Then he barks out a laugh. “Dancing lessons my ass.”

Elain’s lips twitch, but not entirely with amusement; it’s that but it’s slightly off-kilter, closer to joy than humor. She’s missed something, clearly, but she hopes she missed something good. “Leave them be. It’s cute.”

Lucien gives her a look like he bit into a particularly sour lemon. “Please don’t use cute in the same sentence as my brother. It’s eerie.”

Elain laughs, but makes no promises. In any case... “Strangeness of the situation aside, I believe we have some time now. Would you mind terribly if we went for a ride?”

Nesta isn’t sure why everyone is buzzing around her. But, as Eris closes the door behind him, shucking off his shoes and jacket, and climbing into her bed, she has to admit she doesn’t mind it altogether.

She thinks about shaking in the bathroom after Tomas attacked her, about being locked in the House of Wind, surrounded by strangers and her catatonic sister, thinks about muffling sobs into her pillow alone in her former apartment in Velaris. No, for once, she doesn’t mind letting others fuss over her; doesn’t mind having people around who care enough to do so. (Even though she thinks Elain poking her head in to ask for permission to leave the manor is a little excessive and she has told her so.)

Nesta exhales through her nose, body seizing up again and asks, in shuddering breath, as Eris move to embrace her without question. “Why are you here?”

Eris grins, she knows he does, and kisses her shoulder. “You kindly invited me here.”

“Eris.”

“I’m so hard to believe when I’m honest.” he sighs theatrically. “I came to see how you were doing but you did invite me to follow.”

“I’ll be alright for the ball.” that’s not a supposition. That’s a promise. She will be alright, even if it kills her. If Elain hasn’t already suggested taking her place, Nesta is very aware she will. She would be a good distraction too, for different reasons. But while Briallyn wants Nesta and so Beron would have to let her live long enough to deliver her, she doesn’t think he would care for Lucien’s mate in any other way but as a bloody smear on the carpet.

“Excellent news, but not what I wanted to know. Are you alright?”

“I…” Nesta falls silent. “Everyone acts like a mother hen. I’ll be fine.”

“Nesta.”

Nesta huffs an annoyed breath. “Fine. Right now, I feel like shit. Satisfied?”

“No, but thank you for your honesty.” he replies with exaggerated solemnity. Nesta snorts a small laugh, and feels the grip on her tighten in answer, warmth spreading through her.

“Gods, you’re so annoying.”

”What sweet things you tell me. Have you considered a career as a poet?”

“Shut up.”

“You know I really think you’d go far. Your lovely words have melted even my icy heart.”

“I will kick you off the bed.”

“Threats now too?” he swoons. “Stop it Nesta, before I will irrevocably fall in love with you. Then you’ll never be rid of me.”

Nesta means it to come out as flippant, something that would constitute bantering. For some reason though, it comes out a little breathy, a little quiet. “A fate worse than death.”

“Isn’t it just.”

Nesta gathers her strength to kick him, and Eris only laughs as a reaction, a mad little cackle. She feels her lips curl in an answering smile. Yes, he’s an annoying little shit, but somehow she can’t find it in herself to be actually annoyed.

“Nesta…” Eris asks after a few minutes, uncharacteristically serious. Nesta stiffens, wary. “You can pretend to be asleep if you’re not inclined to answer, but you did say I am allowed to ask more questions.” Nesta says nothing, willing to give him a chance, deciding whether or not she’ll have to use the out he has given her. “Why did you leave the Night Court?”

Nesta takes a deep breath. Weeks, no, even just a few days ago she would not have answered him. But she did want him to care, didn’t she? So she tells him the truth, all of it, her words dispassionate and matter of fact. Eris listens, quiet as a dormouse.

When he speaks, his words are an equally neutral: “And you’ve forgiven them?”

Nesta scoffs. “Hardly. Feyre and I just decided to shelve that discussion for now.” or, knowing both of them, perhaps forever. They’re both fierce in their love but also stubborn enough to hold a grudge until the end of time.

“Interesting.” he hums. “If I may make a suggestion: let it go if you will, and then, when Feyre asks you to do something unpleasant, bring out the ‘you tried to have me locked up’ argument. It will be more effective if they don’t expect it.”

Nesta blinks, stunned and, to her own surprise, she feels an incredulous laugh slip from her throat. “The great schemer of the Autumn Court suggests I resort to the tactics of a child?”

Eris’ grip on her tightens a bit and she can practically hear him grin, pleased. “Oh my dear, I have far better ideas, but I doubt you’d appreciate how violent half of them are at the moment.”

Nesta rolls her eyes. “I won’t let you maim my sister, no.”

“Then childhood antics it is. Make them regret it.”

“I intend to.”

There’s a lull in the conversation and Nesta feels ready to slip under. That is, until Eris asks, all innocently even though the question is anything but. “The High Lord’s Bride? What’s that one about?”

Nesta’s eyes snap open. “No.”

“I didn’t even – What are you saying no to now?”

“No, we’re not talking about it, no, don’t you dare even touch it.”

“Spoilsport.” he says, clicking his tongue. “You do know that it’s on your bedside table, within arms reach. I don’t know how you could stop me if I wanted it.”

“Because I asked you not to.”

There’s a brief pause. “Gods damn it.”

Elain has a problem. Or rather, Elain has several problems. No, not the village, where they needed to make a detour for the horses. Elain, acting like a coward perhaps, decided to wait in the forest for that, unwilling to face her former neighbours eying her ears with the same distaste that the Nolans had.

Not even the self-consciousness she feels when she tells Lucien everything she knows about the area where the Band of Exiles manor is located. He may have lived here, but Elain was to be mistress of the Nolan estates once. She knows more than he does, even if the memory of who told her all these things still aches like a wound that will never quite close. Perhaps she will always carry a mark of that, one more insidious whisper in her head doubting if she will ever be enough.

No, the problem was that Lucien listened to every trivial and half-remembered thing Elain rambled out like it was the most important briefing received from a High Lord. And the problem was that he did indeed look dashing horseback, a wild joy dancing in his eyes every time he urged his horse to a gallop, the wind whipping in his hair. And the problem was that they stopped at a little stream for lunch and he had the impertinence to splash her and the impertinence to smirk ever so enticingly, a male thoroughly pleased by his own mischief. And the problem was that he helped her back into the saddle and that Elain can still feel her skin itch and burn where he touched her.

And the problem with all that lies in the single fact that Elain really needs to talk to him about their bond and has not the first idea how.

This trip is more about the journey than the destination, but Elain does have a destination in mind. It isn’t the hovel, nor the chateau that Tamlin gifted them. She doesn’t want to show him the miserable truth of her life, nor the pretty lie that ended too soon. No, she’s taking them on a longer ride.

She’s consulted some maps, her own memory having faded with time. The ride takes them several hours, intermingled with several breaks for the horses. When the familiar sights start to greet her, she urges the horses to stop and with Lucien’s help, climbs down from the saddle as they walk side by side.

The estate that comes into view has been spared by the war for the most part. It’s stately and large, gleaming marble, with a huge garden surrounding it. And with her Fae hearing, Elain hears laughter coming from the house, children’s laughter and she stops stock still, all at once unsure if she wants to see the details from any closer.

Would the people who bought their home after it was seized by the debtors have redecorated? Torn down walls, erected new ones? Would the orchard still be there, kept safe and nourished? The oak tree under which Elain liked to play with her dolls? Is the little splatter of paint that got stuck between the cobblestones after Feyre spilt it still there, or the alcove where Nesta used to hide away to read in peace?

She doesn’t know what would be worse, if every memory of them would be erased, or simply trodden over like it was nothing.

“This was my home.” Elain tells Lucien thickly, blinking fast. “Before we lost it all. This is where I come from.”

Elain has had many homes. She wanted him to see the first one. She needed to see it too, and couldn’t have, not without him. Elain glances about the greenery, a small, nostalgic smile finding her way onto her face, at the sight of dandelions.

“Nesta always loved stories,” Elain starts, kneeling to touch the stem of the flower “and I got it in my head that we should organize a play. She would be the playwright of course, I would be the costume designer and poor little Feyre our main actress. I’ve made her a dandelion crown to wear, for the queen of fairies needed a crown to match, and I nicked a dress from Mother. Feyre’s hair was sticky from the juice, and the dress was so long it got tangled in the undergrowth, all muddy and ripped. Mother was so disappointed.”

She recalls how Nesta shrunk under their Mother’s disappointed gaze, but shoos that memory away and takes a deep breath. “I don’t think I remember most of the lines, but,” she starts spinning, one arm curving above her head “Round, round we go, petals falling to the floor, look here, if you dare and watch the faerie queen dance!”

Elain smiles, a little dizzy from vertigo. She isn’t sure she could ever See something from her own past and yet in that moment she can almost imagine her young self twirling alongside her.

Lucien, amused and visibly endeared, only cocks his head. “And here I thought you feared faeries.”

“Oh, we did. That’s what made it exciting.” Elain tells him brightly. Then her smile dims, which Lucien notices instantly.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no!” Elain reassures him hastily, and bites her lip. She grabs the reins once more, and nods her head to gesture they should turn around. The journey back will be just as long after all. After they take a few long strides, she continues. “It’s only… I know you didn’t think much of humans before either.”

“Ah. Feyre told you.”

“Bits and pieces.” Elain says with a small shrug. “I was just wondering if we’d have even been friends, if we met before.” she’s wearing the bracelet Lucien gave her, but it’s so easy to imagine the weight belonging to a different one, one made of iron, worn out of hate rather than love.

“We would have been. Jurian and Vassa have been able to thoroughly win me over and you’re twice as charming as they are.”

Elain’s lips quirk. “Feyre also told me you were prone to flattery.”

“Flattery? How presumptuous of you. Maybe I just gave them as much credit as was due: have you seen those two properly drunk? Insufferable people.”

“You really care about them.” Elain observes with warmth.

“They’re horrible and I can’t imagine life without them.” Lucien says, and his smile sharpens to a playful smirk. “But what about me?”

“What about you?”

“Would I have charmed even a round-eared, faerie-hating Lady Archeron into being by friend?”

“How presumptuous of you.” Elain chirps, delighted. “What makes you think you’ve charmed me even now?”

Lucien snickers. “Ouch. My lady has no mercy for my ego, I see.”

Elain lets the silence stretch out as she mulls over his words. She walks a few paces, stroking down her mare’s side for emotional support, and so she can hide her face, because she doesn’t want to be seen, not when she asks this. “If I somehow turned back into a human, would you mind that?”

Lucien pauses, she can hear him pause, the wheels in his head turning swiftly. “Why would you even – Is this because of Graysen?”

Elain’s heart skips a beat. She meets his eyes then and can imagine her frantic hers may look. “No! Maybe… Yes.”

“Elain.” he says firmly, her name saying a thousand words even before he continues. “When we were brewing potions, you picked up the right ingredients and you moved to do the right steps – the only reason you kept checking your textbook was because you don’t trust yourself. You’re clever, perceptive, and dreadfully uncertain sometimes. You’re mischievous when you allow yourself to be, and you’re delighted each time, as if you didn’t know you had it in you. You’re kind in an honest, unselfish way. I’ve seen it, you pretending to know less about gardening just to entice Tamlin to loosen up and talk to you. We’ve already established, I think, that you’re terribly brave too.

”You love to rise early in the morning. You stress-bake and stress-brew something fierce. I thought you had a sweet tooth, because you drench everything in syrup whenever one of us is in a bad mood. But then I realized that it’s Nesta that’s the sweet tooth – you probably picked the habit up by trying to cheer her up. You touch the tip of your ear sometimes, like you’d forget the shape of them otherwise. You love all plants, but for some reason your cactus is favored among them. You sleep with a worn-out plushie of a fox. Your notes start tidy, but don’t end up like it: too much color-coding, too many words underlined, too many extra comments on the margins. You laugh and smile easily – your eyes sparkle when they’re honest.”

Elain stares at him, stopping dead in her tracks. Her horse nickers, tugging on the rein, but she barely hears over the thumping of her own heart. The blood rushes to her face and Lucien smiles.

“And you blush so easily.” he adds, gesturing to her cheeks, drawing a line to her rapidly coloring ears. Elain’s mouth feels dry. “You told me once that no one has seen your heart, that no one has looked except Graysen. I see you. I see you and I don’t give a damn what shape you come in Elain. I care that you’re you.”

Elain swallows and nods to him, unsure if she can find her words. She wants to, needs to find them, but knows she can’t do so alone. “That is…” she starts, voice thick with feeling. “Thank you.” she settles on, trying to get the blushing under control.

She gets her feet unstuck and takes one step, then another.

“Do you want to talk about him?” Lucien asks, sounding equal parts curious and reluctant. “Graysen.”

“I thought you met?” Elain asks with a frown, distinctly remembering him telling Feyre so last Solstice while she was ah, eavesdropping. She is grateful for the change of subject, even if it isn’t really a change, because she can feel her skin cool a few degrees, sobered by the reminder of the thorn wedged inside her heart.

Lucien’s expression turns sour. “I don’t think you care to hear my thoughts on him. None are complimentary.”

“I don’t imagine he was on his best behavior, no.” Elain’s face scrunches up. “He hates faeries rather a lot. And you’re well, you’re my…”

Lucien studies her expression and clearly finds the word she is floundering to avoid, because he laughs. “I am that.”

“But,” Elain continues “he wasn’t always… He was kind. A little shy, timid, perhaps too much under his father’s influence. But to me, he was… It was terrible, the years in the hovel. He felt stable, safe. He’d once put his jacket over a puddle just so I could walk over it, all serious and solemn about it.” Elain smiles briefly at the memory, but it’s gone in a flash. “I think he loved me. No, I know he did. But after the Cauldron… I don’t think he saw me anymore. I think he just saw a monster.”

“He was a fool for it.” Lucien says, offended fire crackling under his voice, offended on her behalf. It helps, Elain finds. “I am sorry he wasn’t what you deserved.”

I think you could be, Elain thinks, and feels rather like tumbling off a cliff at the sheer stupidity of her pitter-pattering heart. She looks away, nearly certain that Lucien can just tell somehow that she has gone certifiably mad.

They ride back home, quieter now, enjoying the ride more than the scenery. When they get home, Elain immediately checks on Nesta, who seems to feel good enough to manage dinner. Practically vibrating in her seat for a chance, Elain steals Vassa away and kidnaps her to her room the moment dinner is finished. Then, once the door is shut, she declares gravely: “I need your help.”

“With what?” Vassa frowns, noting Elain’s frantic energy. “Has something happened?”

“No. Well. Depends. Happen isn’t the best word. I… I like Lucien.”

Vassa gives her a confused look. “I’ve noticed…?”

“No! I like Lucien.” Elain emphasizes and knows Vassa understands, because she smiles sunnily at her. Elain groans. “No, don’t look at me like that! That’s the problem!”

“How is that a problem? Forgive me if I am missing something, but you’ve been getting along splendidly for the past weeks. You both clearly make each other very happy and even the… Cauldron,” Vassa says, face pinched at the mention of the faerie relic “agrees you’d be a good match. I don’t see where the issue lies.”

“There.” Elain gestures quickly. “Precisely there. The Cauldron!”

Vassa’s frown deepens. “You don’t want to like him because he’s your mate?”

“No! I do, I do like him despite that.” Elain hastens to clarify, then whines. This is going swimmingly. She takes a deep breath. “But it’s… mates are very important for faeries. I want to try, but I’m not sure I’m ready to make an eternal promise and I don’t think he is either. If he even still wants to? Gods, what if he decided we’re better as friends. What if I make everything awkward again? I can’t go back to that!”

“Oh.” Vassa’s mouth parts, looking quite like how Elain would imagine a deer that just noticed a hunter. “I see.”

Elain’s mouth snaps open with audible incredulity. “That’s it?”

“It appears I do not know what to say.” Vassa replies stiffly. “A rare sight, I’m sure both Jurian and Lucien would gleefully point out.”

Elain groans and sinks headfirst into her bed, feeling rather like a pathetic thirteen-year old girl with her first crush. After a few seconds, she feels Vassa sit beside her and uncertainly pat her on the back.

“I think you should have a frank conversation.” Vassa says, but in a way that sounds just as much a question as a statement. But then she adds, with more resolve: “Lucien only ever wanted to talk, as far as I’m aware. I shouldn’t imagine he would be cross, even if the talk did not end the way he wanted to.”

Elain sighs and lifts her head. “Vassa, the words that tumble out of my mouth when I’m stressed usually don’t make sense. What if I mess it all up?”

Vassa takes a moment to consider it and then juts out her chin. “Well, then you say it again. Until it makes sense.”

“That’s… it?” Elain echoes again, rather skeptical. Vassa gives her a wry smile.

“I do not know what you expected, coming to me of all people for romantic advice. I am rather the worst person to ask.”

Elain returns her smile and shakes her head. “Do not sell yourself short. I do not think anyone here has much success with stable relationships. Perhaps Lucien?”

Vassa barks out a surprised laugh. “What a low bar, indeed. But,” and here she sobers, giving Elain a long look. “levity aside, I do wish both of you the best. You are dear friends, and dearly deserving of happiness.”

“Thank you Vassa.” Elain replies, her smile turning softer. “Truly.”

Dinner isn’t officially a discussion of their plan for tomorrow, because they’re through that, having spent the whole day in a flurry of notes and visits exchanged to finalize everything. But everyone sort of treats it as such, nervous enough to keep them retreading the same ground.

Nesta has climbed out of her bed, looking a little better, if sullen, and has been studying the map Eris left them for the better part of the meal that she can only stomach eating in fits and starts, rubbing her finger over unassuming walls marked with x-es, where the Forest House’s magical short-cuts are supposed to be. Jurian meanwhile has gone over the patrol routes with Lucien for the third time. Vassa clears her throat from time to time, to make sure they’re actually busy with the dinner too.

Their plan isn’t complicated. Eris will organize some sort of distraction in the western part of the forest to draw the sentries away, so Elain and the others can sneak into the closest secret entrance. Helion will dismantle the glamour wards and hopefully, as long as they keep to the lower levels and Nesta manages to distract those in charge upstairs, no one should be able or willing to scrutinize three unfamiliar servants.

Elain hasn’t brought up replacing Nesta if she can’t go. She eyes her sister, stubbornly fixated on the map, and bites her lip. She’ll wait until tomorrow. She can wait.

There’s a blade stuck under her ribs, twisting, hurting. It’s an undercurrent to the whole evening, an anxiety that doesn’t belong to her, but beats inside the heart that sits outside of her chest. Lucien slips away the moment dinner ends. He doesn’t return for a good long while either.So Elain pulls on a jacket to ward off the evening chill and slips out the manor to find him. He is sitting on the bench, overlooking the little pond, where they talked on her second night here. When Elain sits beside him, he says nothing.

The crickets are chirping loudly, and somewhere far away, an owl hoots. The gates of the manor creak, Vassa and Jurian either leaving or returning from somewhere. Lucien only stares at the pond as a frog lands with a small splash.

“Are you okay?” Elain asks, even knowing the answer. Lucien only sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“No.” he says, enunciating the word, a rueful expression on his face. “But we’ve been through this already. I’m worried, I hate this, if not for the break in my family may kill you just for your association to me, and so on and so forth. I would be terribly dull company tonight Elain. You’d best leave me to my brooding.”

Elain studies him, her lips pulled into a frown. She doesn’t always know the right words. So she lets them tumble out as they will. “Maybe we haven’t discussed all of it.”

“Meaning?”

“I mean my ‘association’ to you, as you’ve put it. I haven’t exactly been… forthcoming on that subject, and I think I should be. I still don’t know how to feel about it. Maybe I will never know. But what I do know is that if it had to be someone, I’m glad that out of anyone in this world and the next, the Cauldron chose you for me.” Elain takes a deep breath and tries feign poise as she adds: “I’m glad you’re my… mate.”

Elain expected a lot of reactions from Lucien. Happy relief (utterly best case scenario) or unimpressed discomfort at a gesture too little too late (worst case scenario) she could have handled. His face crinkling as a low laugh rumbles from him was not something she was prepared for.

“You say that word like you expect a lightning to strike you dead for your audacity.”

Elain gives sniffs haughtily. “Well, it might. Besides, you’re in no hurry to say it either!”

“Say what?” Lucien asks, a passable imitation of innocence. Elain pokes him in the chest and his grin widens. “Forgive me, but I was under the impression that if I said the word ‘mate’ out loud to you again you’d club me over the head and make a break for it.”

Elain considers him, studying the curve of his smile. She opens her palm, hand tentatively touching Lucien’s chest, right over his heart. Ba-dum, ba-dum. It’s entrancing, to be able to feel the rhythm and not just hear it. Elain’s pointer finger starts tapping the beat back, an answer perhaps to a call in her soul. She’d always been a little too fascinated by Lucien’s heart, even when she didn’t want it.

“I’m not running now,” she whispers “am I?”

There’s something undecipherable in Lucien’s expression at that, humor transforming into something altogether much quieter and fragile. Surprise, awe, the male catching up to the fact that they’re standing over a precipice. “No…no, you’re not.”

Elain swallows, letting her hand fall from him. Despite her talk with Vassa this isn’t easy at all. “Lucien… I need to ask you something. Something that will sound really bad at first, and I apologize already.”

“Alright.”

“The mating bond. Does it hurt you?”

Lucien looks more than a little shocked by the question, but he obliges, if with furrowed brows. “Hurt me? No, I wouldn’t call it pain. It was bad, when it snapped: the protective instincts can be overwhelming and you must understand, I thought you were in danger. But now… no, it doesn’t hurt. I feel what you feel sometimes, or what you want me to feel. Imagine it as a, a little tug. It’s present, but it’s not unpleasant. Why?”

Elain hunches her shoulders a little, already bracing for the worst. “Could you manage it like this, for a little while longer?”

“Elain, what are you trying to say?”

“Accepting the bond, that’s a little bit like marriage for you, isn’t it? And I’m not ready for that yet. Not after Graysen. I was too quick, too hasty, and I can’t do it again. I’m sorry.” she can feel the hole she is digging get deeper and deeper the more she speaks. But the worse it gets the more she needs to talk to clarify it. “But I… I care about you. And I want to try, if you can, that is, if you would wait for me a little longer.”

“Elain,” Lucien says, a little hoarse and repeats “what exactly are you saying?”

“May I kiss you?”

If he looked lost before, now he is entirely flummoxed. His mouth parts, eyes blown wider as he tries to process everything that has happened. Which is a lot. Elain has warned Vassa this may be an issue. Oh gods, she just asked if she could kiss him. What is wrong with her?

Recovering from his stupor, but still in a trance, a daze, with the look of a man dreaming and not minding it, Lucien reaches forward and cups Elain’s cheek. Elain shivers at the sensation, which does not help her overcome her mortification much. “Let me make sure I understand. You don’t want to accept the mating bond yet, but you want me to court you?”

The blush on Elain’s cheek deepens. It’s sweet that he would offer to do a courtship the human way. She’s also, perhaps, dying inside at the prospect. A proper courtship would take far too long for her tastes. “No. Well. Maybe. Later.”

Lucien gives her a grin, a little roguish, but his eyes reflect the true happiness that belies his flippant comment. “Because you want to kiss me right now.”

Elain wonders if it would be rude if she just did it. “I’m rethinking that with each passing second you spend gloating.” she jokes instead.

“Then by all means, my lady, put my mouth to better use.”

Elain leans in and kisses him like she’s wanted to days ago, sweet, chaste, curious. It’s over in a blink and Elain tilts her head, watching Lucien’s reaction. He just stares at her, and despite his smug remarks earlier he looks like he’s shocked she actually meant it. Elain lets out a small exhilarated giggle. She feels relief and joy flow through her, liquid and dizzying and starts to pepper kisses on his face, his cheeks, his scar, the tip of his nose. Lucien grins at her and she knows she’s in trouble but minds it not one bit: he takes her hand and kisses her knuckles, the tip of her ear, her cheek, her neck. But where Elain offered quick pecks he lingers, a slow exploration, because obviously he needed to give her a taste of her own medicine and then some. Elain makes a noise that’s caught somewhere on the borderline of a gasp and impatience and pushes him away (he goes, ever so pliant) only so that she can kiss him again, properly this time, lingering and breathless. Lucien grabs her waist in retaliation, hauling her into his lap. Elain lets out a playful shriek of surprise, but goes easily, fitting in his arms like she belongs there.

Wherever he leads, she’ll follow, because she knows he’d do the same for her.

Chapter Text

Nesta’s day starts well enough. She wakes up and while she’s still stiff and achy all over, she no longer feels like she’s strapped to a torturer’s table. Her hands tremble a bit, but she finally manages to braid her hair into her usual coronet, and, when she stands on her own two feet, she no longer needs to grab purchase on whatever is close by. Progress is made.

She glances back at her bed and finds no errant blood specks either. Progress indeed. However, she does find something else. Sitting on her bedside table is a small parcel with her name on it. Nesta frowns and unwraps it, not that doing so helps her confusion much: it contains a tiny paper note, punched through with… a hairpin. It’s a simple thing, gleaming gold, with a miniature dragon curved around one end, and the note is an equally simple, if presumptuous: “Hope we’ll play later, my dear.”

Nesta crumples up the note and tosses it back onto the table, next to the High Lord’s Bride, but she keeps the pin, fiddling with it as she exits the room. It’s simple, but still… rather pretty.

Her optimism dies a violent death roughly the exact second she steps out of the room. She hears the giggles first, from her sister, and follows the noise to the most disgusting sight. Elain’s dancing with Lucien, although dancing is a charitable a term to use. Swaying on their feet is perhaps the only move that they execute with any finesse, most of the time they’re too busy making eyes at each other to avoid stepping on the other’s toes or colliding – which seems to cheer them for whatever reason. Elain’s face is hidden in the crook of Lucien’s neck, her frame vibrating with laughter. Nesta is entirely uncertain if that’s physically possible, but Lucien seems to outright glow, as if fireflies are trapped under his skin.

Nesta stares at them.

“Don’t bother,” comes Jurian’s bored warning. The general is on the sofa, popping a cheese scone in his mouth. He chews it slowly and nods towards the insanity and adds “they’ve been unbearable all day.”

At the noise of conversation Elain glances over and gasps happily. Lucien twirls her around as he lets her go, and she spins closer.

“Nesta!” her sister cries, far too chipper. “You look better! Are you feeling okay?”

“I am.” a little sore, but nothing she won’t survive. The scene she just witnessed is far more likely to pose a hazard to her health. As she sits down, she scrutinizes the both of them carefully. “What’s going on over here?”

Elain swishes her skirt around “Lucien showed me a few Autumn dances.”

“I’ve learnt Autumn dances. They look nothing like this.”

“We may have gotten distracted.” Lucien admits, smirking a bit and Elain giggles once more. Deeming them hopeless, Nesta slowly turns towards Jurian. He sighs.

“They’re either honeymooning or one of their potion-experiments has gone very wrong and I’m not awake enough at the crack ass of dawn –

“It’s 10, Jurian.” Lucien points out, which Jurian promptly ignores.

“ – to figure out which, or to be able to stomach the answer.”

With that, he picks up another scone. Nesta glances between her sister and her sister’s mate who may have lasted a pathetically short time trying to avoid a romantic entanglement and decides that, fair point, this is not a conversation she wants to have right now.

She reaches for Jurian’s plate. He makes an affronted noise, but allows her to pilfer a scone. As she’s eating she points a finger (not a mark of death, but a threat anyway) towards both of the idiots.

“You,” she tells Lucien, imperious, and he stiffens to attention, remembering well who she is “treat her well. And you,” she addresses Elain, lowering her finger as she trails off. When she continues, her voice is gentler. “be certain.”

They both nod, some of their levity chipped away. Good. They should be taking this seriously. Nesta won’t begrudge them happiness, but they’ve both been through enough. Rushing into something and breaking each other’s heart is the last thing either of them needs.

Elain sinks down beside Nesta on the sofa wordlessly, while Lucien sits in the armchair. They catch each other’s gaze, and Elain shyly tucks a hair behind her ear, blushing. Nesta almost snorts. Glad to know nothing can dampen their spirits for long.

Mission done, she reaches for another scone and Jurian rolls his eyes as he stands. “Help yourself, I’ll get another plate. Do you need coffee too, you leech?”

“Yes.”

Jurian snorts and mutters an emphatic “unbelievable.” before he goes back to the kitchen. Elain and Lucien’s gazes keep bouncing at her then at each other, absolutely waiting for her to broach the subject. She won’t. The scones are, actually, rather good. Elain’s handiwork, most likely.

Beside the plate of scones, there’s an unwrapped parcel similar to the one she found in her bedroom, with a few notes in what she has come to learn as Eris’ handwriting, confirming that patrol schedule 12 will indeed be in effect today.

Nesta runs a finger down the pin, the metal already slightly warm from her body heat and asks: “What kind of hairstyles do they prefer in Autumn?”

Lucien, for his part, is only thrown by sudden change of topic for a moment: formerly being friends with Feyre must have honed his tolerance for strange questions. “We prefer to leave it unbound, but there are no strict rules surrounding it. Why?”

Nesta sets the pin on the table, nudging it closer to Lucien. His mechanic eye whirrs, studying the piece with curiosity and puzzlement. “I got this from Eris. Wondered if you knew why.”

Lucien pauses his observation to stare at her. Then he laughs.

“I might have an idea.” he tells her, far too amused for it to mean anything good. “The Autumn Court thrives on games and gossip, as you well know. There is an old courtly tradition – game rather. Ladies used to have their hair pinned loosely at balls: if they snatched out the pin from their hair, or even more scandalously, let someone else do it for them, that was often considered a proposition. They found such petty dramas endlessly amusing. That tradition is rarely observed now, but,” he gestures to the pin, smirking “gifting a lady a pin is still often considered an expression of… interest.”

Elain’s mouth parts with a shocked noise. Lucien gives her a fond look, before turning back to Nesta. “My brother is either beyond hopelessly smitten or else he’s teasing you and will likely get his head bitten off in the most spectacular fashion. Either way, I will be thoroughly entertained.”

Nesta looks back at the pin and hums, right as Jurian enters with her coffee. She takes it, takes a sip. Eris is a godsdamned menace and he would be insufferable if she wore that pin for the ball. On the other hand, maybe she could one up him again, and turn that smirk into gobsmacked surprise (and longing, ideally).

And after all, whatever this thing between them is, she has initiated it: she can hardly blame him for trying. She can make him regret it though.

Nesta smiles, her fingers clasping the pin. Good thing it matches her dress too.

Nesta, fully free of the curse of Fae biology, declares she is able to participate in the ball. Elain, to Nesta’s surprise, offers no protest, only cheerful acknowledgement. It’s weird, to prepare for a verbal sparring match and then face the reality of harmonious agreement. It’s weird and Nesta will not get used to it any time soon.

Now that she is well enough to move around, the restlessness from the days spent cooped up gnaws on her. Taking pity on her, Jurian offers to give her a few pointers on sword-fighting, so she could one day wield Narben without poking out her own eyes in the process (his words). They go through basic stances, Jurian having to adjust Nesta’s grip on the sword at least sixteen times (too tight, according to him). Narben purrs in her hands and Nesta swears the sword seems to try and help her. She barely feels its weight and, when Jurian shows her a simple uppercut, it gingerly course corrects her. It’s a bizarre experience.

But even with a magical sword doing its best to accommodate her, Nesta performs - in her own view - frankly terribly. She isn’t too broken up about it though, not when moving her sore and stiff muscles feels so good.

When it’s time to get ready, Elain sits down on Nesta’s bed, smiling as she had all day. The garb Elain is wearing is a plain, orange pinafore dress Eris pilfered from the servants and Feyre had a seamstress in Velaris fit to her measurements. While relations with their youngest sister are still not free of tension, nor has she admitted to ever doing anything wrong (she likely never will, but as long as she doesn’t expect Nesta to grovel to her either, they can work with that), Feyre is still very quick to jump on opportunities to be helpful lately.

Nesta thinks it’s bribery. Elain thinks it’s an olive branch. Which, in this case, is functionally the same thing.

The altered servant garbs were delivered by one of the wraiths – Cerridwen, Nesta suspects, given that she detected barely any hostility towards her person and Nuala is so loyal to her High Lord that she is suspicious of her on principle – who then sheepishly insisted on helping Elain get ready. That probably also improved her sister’s mood to a level very ill-suited to embarking on a dangerous mission.

Nesta smooths down her skirt as she sits before the vanity and begins brushing out her hair. When she moves to arrange it in a bun, skewering it with her dragon pin, Elain smiles knowingly, but stays silent.

“Tamlin is here!” Jurian bellows out, loud enough that he might as well have been standing right beside them. Elain stands and throws her arms around Nesta.

“Stay safe.” Elain murmurs, sincerely but not without that ever-present sparkle in her eyes. “But do try to have fun, if you can. You deserve a break.”

“Stay safe.” Nesta echoes and shakes her head with a dry smile. “I’d say don’t enjoy your heist too much, but I know you will.”

Elain laughs merrily. “My stomach’s in knots, but I am a little excited. It’s only… I’m so glad I’m allowed to help, you know?”

Nesta’s smile falters, remembering Elain’s words about feeling like a burden. She swallows thickly and gives her a curt nod. Yes, she knows that it means a lot to her sister. It means everything.

They walk out to the courtyard where Tamlin waits, looking extremely uncomfortable which seems to cause no shortage of amusement to Lucien. The High Lord of Spring wears a simple green suit, embroidered with flowers. It’s clear that he’s dressed up but only barely – which, Nesta reckons, will also send tongues wagging about the disrespect so his reluctance works in their favor.

Tamlin offers a sincere smile to Elain and a polite one to Nesta, which she doesn’t bother returning. The moon peeks out from behind a cloud, emphasizing the lateness of the hour. It’s time for them to go. Nesta says her goodbyes and well-wishes to the others. Vassa calls out to her from the trees, presumably expressing similar sentiments. Then Tamlin winnows them away.

The crowd is the first thing Nesta notices, thronged near the entrance of the Forest House. There’s a low murmur rippling about, nothing too intrusive, as the guests move inside like a slow-coursing river. The group in the line before them wear elaborate scarlet clothes, all in the same distinct hue. One of them, wearing an ornate mask that covers half his face, turns at the sound of their arrival and gives them a shark-toothed grin in lieu of a greeting.

There are large, gnarled trees paving the way, their orange and red leaves glittering in the moonlight. Beyond them, around them, is the Forest House. Nesta understands why all Eris and Lucien could say is that it’s massive: she can barely grasp a fraction of it. The roof disappears into the treeline, walls – exquisitely carved to resemble veins on a leaf – seem to stretch on endlessly. It doesn’t feel like a building against a landscape: the Forest House eats up the landscape.

This isn’t the main entrance, merely the closest to the ballroom, but that doesn’t mean the security is lax in the least: Nesta hears the branches rustle sometimes as they approach and if she’s quick enough, she can almost spot a blur of shadow that is likely a sentry.

Two guards examine them thoroughly as they enter the building proper, perhaps looking for the wards to act up or something as mundane as a weapon on their person. Satisfied, they usher them inside, wishing them a bored “have a pleasant evening.”. Faintly, she can hear names being announced, guests entering the ball.

In the dim torchlight, she can’t help notice how small the windows are, how unsettlingly little light they let in. Nesta shakes off the unease that anything could be watching her from the lengthening shadows and walks evenly beside Tamlin to the main ballroom.

They walk past a wall that Nesta remembers from the maps hides a magical shortcut, but there is no outward sign that there’s anything special about it. Somehow she expected there to be some clue, the air shimmering, or the hair on her arm standing up as if electrified. But there’s just a boring painting of Beron that takes up half the space.

Standing at the top of the stairs leading to the ballroom, just off to the side and out of sight from below, they wait their turn. The group before them is introduced as Autumn nobility, Fabian, the lord of the Scarlet Woods and his entourage. When it’s their turn to go, the poor announcer does a double take and audibly gulps. Tamlin especially seems to unnerve him: he has, now that Nesta recalls, dragged Beron away by his scruff to fight in the war.

“My, my lord.” he stammers. “Pleasure to see you, ah, again. And the name of your companion, if you please?”

“Nesta.” Nesta says, smiling coolly. “Nesta Archeron.”

Her last name, predictably, makes the fellow’s eyes widen in a different sort of panic, but he nods, frantically. The previous guests have descended the stairs now. The crier keeps glancing backwards, and the moment they’re done with their perfunctory bows before the dais of Beron’s throne (does he have multiple thrones, she muses, or did they drag one over here just for this?), he clears his throat and shouts over the din:

“Welcoming Tamlin, High Lord of Spring and his companion Nesta Archeron.” he gives her a twitchy look, before he adds: “Kingslayer.”

Nesta walks down the opulent, golden staircase into the belly of the beast. Garlands hang in the air, with beautiful, red stained glass shards that catch and reflect the light from the torches, painting the ballroom in shades of spattered blood.

Their arrival causes a few titters and gasps from those boldest among the Autumn Court. Nesta glances over, seeking the Night Court and sure enough, when she follows the speculative gazes, she finds Feyre and Rhysand with Cassian standing off to the side, near the Winter delegation. Rhysand and Cassian she imagines don’t need much to summon disapproval to their faces, but Feyre, a surprisingly apt actress as Tamlin himself can attest, gives such a profound look of loathing mixed with pain that it ratchets the tension higher.

When they appear before Beron, as his equal, Tamlin only gives High Lord a nod, while Nesta sinks into a deep, reverent curtsy. When she straightens, she takes the chance to cast a proper look around the dais. The High Lord and Lady of Autumn are both seated on elegant thrones, sculpted of rich, brown wood. Beron gives them a long and scrutinizing look, but the Lady Calida barely spares them a glance. She looks listless, wan, worse for wear than the last time Nesta has seen her. Circling the couple are their – remaining – sons. Eris, beside his father, looks vaguely amused, eyes empty of any recognition of her. His gaze doesn’t wander, doesn’t linger, not on her, or her dress, or even the pin. He doesn’t look at her like he sees her; he looks as if he sees tonight’s entertainment.

On Calida’s side is a son a touch taller than the others, his hair a deeper shade of red, almost brown, his face resembling the sternness of Beron’s the most. Based on Eris’ description’s she would guess that is Aiden. The one who’ll know everything by the end of the night anyway; the spymaster. Supposedly, he has no ambitions for the throne and has personal reasons to despise Beron’s alliance with Koschei, but Nesta knows she would be a fool to underestimate him.

Beside them are the twins: Phobos and Deimos. Though both broad-shouldered and built like warriors, with the same angular face, the same cutting russet eyes, their countenance is so different that it’s not difficult to tell them apart. Phobos, the one with the penchant for poisons, wears his hair in a high ponytail, his deep purple tunic elegant and refined, his lips pulled in a perpetual sneer. By contrast, Deimos wears black and red ceremonial armor, with a frigidly cold and steely expression. Phobos, Eris had made every attempt to warn her about. Deimos, however, he was surprisingly evasive about. His commentary on him began and ended with the advice that she shouldn’t worry about him, because he’ll be too preoccupied to cause any trouble. That was suspicious enough that if Lucien didn’t already go into a fit of brooding at any mention of the ball, Nesta might have chanced asking him about the brother who tried to kill him once.

“Welcome to my halls.” Beron says with an air of formality, but there’s a curiosity on his face that is as dangerous as it is advantageous. “Isn’t it so much nicer, Tamlin, when I expect your arrival and can offer you proper greetings? And the lovely Nesta Archeron, what pleasure to see you again. How resplendent you look in our colors.”

“I thank you for your kindness. The pleasure is mine.”

Beron raises a hand, subtly arresting them before they can take their leave. “When you had not arrived with Night, I thought you would not come. Imagine my surprise then, to see you here, with the strangest of companions.”

Nesta knows this introduction lasts too long, that they’re keeping up the line. But she knows that they haven’t been dismissed yet, and that, even without outright asking, Beron has posed her a question. She feels the eager eyes on her too, hungry for good gossip. Her smile is perfectly cordial, as she replies:

“It would have been stranger if I had arrived with Night; I am no longer a part of that Court.”

There are oohs, and ahhs, but Nesta forces her attention to remain on the High Lord. Beron gives her one last appraising look, his lips curving in a dagger-sharp smile.

“I see.” he says, then gestures for them to go. “I hope you will find my Court more to your liking.”

“My lord.” Nesta curtsies again and lets Tamlin steer her into the cluster of people waiting. The next guests are announced, some minor lords of Autumn, and Nesta exhales softly. They’re in, and they’ve already drawn the attention of the crowd. So far, so good.

She just hopes Elain and the rest will have just as much luck.

It’s strange. Elain knows all three of them are glamoured beyond recognition, but she forgets sometimes, when she looks at her companions and all she sees is Lucien and Helion. As they entered Autumn, Elain grabbed a hold of Lucien’s hand and kissed it, willing all her bravery to him. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, and mutely began to lead the way.

They winnowed to the borderline of the winnowing wards that surround the Forest House. Thanks to the guests, they’re allowed closer than usual and with this many people milling around, the guards should be busier too. But that doesn’t mean they’re safe.

Lucien keeps checking a small pocket-watch for the time (a gift from Nuan, always impeccably correct) and mutely gestures for them to run, to hide, or to wait. Elain takes small, quiet breaths, pressed against a tree, hidden in the brambles. She strains her ears for the noise of the trees being disturbed. There’s a low rustle, a branch creaking – then it is past.

Lucien signals for the go-ahead.

For maximum efficiency, instead of setting up guard posts, Beron has the perimeter of the Forest House constantly patrolled, in different shapes and rotations. Their plan – their hope – is to be able to make a dash for the hidden exit reserved for the royal family in case of emergencies between two sentries.

For that, they’ll need to wait for Eris’ distraction that he insists will be able to disrupt the patrols. At exactly half past nine. They rush to a rocky outcrop and quickly hide underneath it. Lucien glances at his watch again. Nine, twenty-seven.

The sentry above them pauses for a heartstoppingly long moment before he passes by. Elain is nearly dizzy with impatience and worry. What if Eris couldn’t pull it off? What if something happened at the ball? What if…

Elain startles when something wet nudges into her ankle. She’s even more surprised when she realizes that it was a nose, belonging to a big, slender dog with gray fur. In the dark, the dog’s silhouette seems strange, almost as if it isn’t wholly tangible or real in some places. It sits patiently on the grass, head cocked and stares at her. It, very clearly, waits.

“That’s one of Eris’.” Lucien whispers. “But what is she…”

A piercing, blood-curdling scream rings out, breaking the silence of the night. It’s far, far off to their left and yet it makes the hair stand on Elain’s arms. Even with her enhanced sight she can’t what happened, but she hears the yells of alarm, the whole forest shaking with sentries jumping and sprinting from one branch to another, some descending with feet thumping to the ground, running towards the scream.

“Find that archer!” someone cries.

“They’re attacking from above!”

The dog wags her tail and sprints off in a different direction. Once she’s far enough ahead, she begins barking loudly. Several sentries, ones Elain hasn’t even noticed around, emerge from cover and peel off after her to investigate.

An assailant in the trees, to turn their attention towards the treeline, to their own kin. And a hunting dog running around planting a false trail and making enough noise to cover their own escape. Clever, Elain has to admit, even if she isn’t sure she wants to know who just got shot in earnest to help them achieve this. She takes off after Lucien in a sprint, zig-zagging from cover to cover, keeping to the shadows.

Quiet as possible, Elain doesn’t notice they aren’t alone until someone grabs her by the arm and holds a sword to her throat. She gasps and tries to move but she’s held fast.

“Halt!” the voice demands, frazzled, nerves frayed. “Who are you?”

Before Lucien or Helion could do something foolish, Elain reaches for her flower bracelet. Holding her breath and moving as fast as possible, she swings her arm upwards and unfurls the petals. A thick cloud of ash-enhanced sleeping powder blooms above her head. The grip on her slackens in an instant, the blade kissing her neck and falling away harmlessly without any pressure behind it. She’s already running by the time the body drops behind her. Lucien and Helion are a bit stunned but recover quickly, all of them aware that they’ve wasted precious time as is.

The secret entrance is carved into the rock that is the foundation of the Forest House. You wouldn’t know where to look for it, unless you used it to slip out unseen for centuries of course: Lucien expertly navigates them around and stops exactly at the correct rock face, discoloured with white lines that open under the touch of his palm.

Without the light of the moon and the stars to guide her, Elain nearly stumbles as they step into the large, cavernous corridor. She feels dizzy and nauseous, the glamour on her skin flickering like static as the overwhelming magic of the Forest House tries to rip it from her and lay her deceptions bare. Helion claps his hands together and the pressure eases, but doesn’t entirely go away. His face screws up in concentration as he tries to unravel the wards.

Lucien snaps his fingers and fire dances around his palm, painting shadows across the barren walls. “Quick thinking Elain.” he tells her. “How long will the guard be out for?”

“Erm. Well.” Elain starts, bashful all the sudden. “I’m not sure. We’ve never tested it before now? I just thought it might come in handy to bring some.”

Lucien stares at her. “You beautiful lunatic of a lady. I adore you.”

Elain flashes him a smile and tries to resist the urge to rise on her tiptoes and kiss him. And then a brilliant, still rather shocking revelation comes: there’s absolutely no reason why she should hold back. So she bounces on her heels and presses a quick kiss to his lips. Lucien makes a move to reach for her again, when Elain casts a meaningful look towards Helion. Lucien’s lips quirk and he whispers “That’s playing dirty.” only for her ears. Elain preens.

Helion begins to draw intricate patterns into the air, shapes that sparkle with light on occasion. His expression is thoughtful, and, as the lights twinkle out with a soft pop, troubled. “I’ve cut a hole in the glamour wards.” Helion tells them. “It should allow us access without raising any alarms.”

He sounds so distracted as he says what is supposedly good news. Elain feels a sense of foreboding build in her. It was easy to get in. Perhaps too easy.

“Then what’s the problem?” Lucien asks, face pinched, expecting the worst too.

“No offense, but your father is the most paranoid bastard in existence. I should not have been able to cleave through his wards with this much ease.”

Lucien stares at the High Lord, then at the door separating them from the Forest House proper. He looks grim. “I don’t think that is an accident.”

“No, neither do I.”

Elain’s stomach plummets. They always knew that it would be foolish to assume Beron wouldn’t use the opportunity the ball provides to scheme. But scheme what and to what end? Are they expected? Is their way paved into a trap? Or is he distracted by something else, a plot to ensnare Nesta?

There’s only one way to find out, and that is to keep to the plan. She exhales forcefully and moves to the door, which opens without so much as a creak. They slip out, quiet as a mouse, to a barren stone corridor, lit only by flickering torches on the walls. The lower, servant levels of the Forest House are open before them.

The plan to use Nesta as a distraction seems to be working, though a little too well. After a perfunctory dance with Tamlin – which was uncomfortable for both parties – the Autumn Court descended on her, prying with each and every waltz she so graciously agreed to.

The same male that she’s seen, the one with the mask – Fabian of the Scarlet Woods, is perhaps the boldest of the lot.

“Interesting, to see you allying yourself with your sister’s staunchest enemy.” he says. Nesta gives him a flat look.

“My lord, I feel I must congratulate you on your originality. Only precisely every one of my partners tonight tried to ask me why I left the Night Court.”

Fabian smiles. “After all our troubles, it seems we’re perhaps a little too eager for some light-hearted gossip. Do you know,” he lowers his voice as if letting her in on a secret “that the last time the Equinox Ball was open to all Courts was a year before the first war with Hybern? Such a curious thing indeed. And of course, we are hardly privy to Lord Beron’s reasoning, not since he dismissed the assembly of nobles a few months ago. And with what is happening in Spring… Perhaps a dark and starless night is what awaits us, don’t you think?”

Nesta recognizes that – rebuffed the first time – the courtier now offers up his own information in hopes of soliciting an equal exchange from her. His suspicion of a war with the Night Court isn’t out of the question; although his assumption on an aggressor is likely off.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve seen no sign of a coming strife during my time in either Spring or Night. I would imagine if there is to be any conflict, both High Lords would wish for us to face the threat together.”

Which of course means, I don’t think Rhysand intends to invade you.

Fabian mulls her words over and nods his head, genuinely satisfied with this veiled piece of intel. “I see. Thank you. Let us hope then, that this festive occasion simply marks an era of peace and hope.”

After the dance concludes, Nesta seeks momentary respite at the buffet. She takes a few candied nuts and stares out in the sea of people.

Feyre’s voice invades her mind to let her know that Elain and the others are safely inside the Forest House now, which nearly makes her sag in relief. Feyre of course tries to ask if she is alright too. Nesta tells her she is. It’s only partially a lie too.

She’s not bored, she doesn’t have time to be bored. But standing out here alone she feels… adrift. Her eyes often wander towards Eris, who is always busy with one thing or another. Just as well. It would be too obvious if he asked her to dance so soon, wouldn’t it?

Even if she wanted to, she cannot join Night – and, any time she catches Cassian’s heated gaze (glare?) towards her, she is reminded why she does not even want to. Tamlin has done a great job making himself scarce too. The last time Nesta saw him, he was trying to valiantly fend off the advances of an Autumn faerie who had a bit too much to drink already.

Without them, there is no one she knows. The High Lord of Summer – a male clearly only here to make appearances and who will leave the moment it is polite to do so – deeply resents Feyre and Nesta isn’t about to test if the association extends to her. The entire Winter delegation is attached to Night’s hip, Viviane no doubt pestering Rhys about Mor. Thesan from Dawn asked her for a single dance and while that was a far more pleasant experience than being pawed by her sister’s former lover or interrogated by courtiers with false smiles, it was only a polite grace and Nesta did not wish to overstay her welcome.

A little parched, she tries to find something to drink – preferably something non-alcoholic, to keep her mind clear tonight – when she notices a shock of red hair from her periphery. But it’s the wrong Vanserra to accost her. No, Nesta thinks, taking in the leery look, and the elegant finery, probably the very worst. Phobos hands her a glass of champagne and asks:

“How are you enjoying the festivities, Nesta Archeron?”

Nesta plasters on an overly polite smile. “You have me at a disadvantage. I didn’t catch your name, prince.”

“Forgive my lack of manners,” he says, sounding anything but apologetic. “Phobos Vanserra, at your service.”

Nesta eyes her drink dubiously. She doesn’t think she should outright give it back, but it would be beyond stupid of her to take even a single sip from a glass offered by a poisoner. Phobos notes her hesitation and grins.

“Did my brother warn you away from me?” he asks, crooning, as he crowds into her space. “And how is Lucien these days?”

“I wouldn’t presume to know.”

“Wouldn’t you? Funny, I heard your sister was mated to him, the beautiful one. It is rather a shame that you didn’t bring her. I would have loved to make her acquaintance. She deserves a proper Autumn welcome.”

Nesta’s eyes flash in warning. “You don’t get to speak of her.”

Phobos’ polite veneer slips to reveal his usual sneer. “You shouldn’t take that tone with a prince. This is my home, Kingslayer, and there are many here who would be overjoyed to see you dead. Shall I make their day, or not? Don’t test my hospitality.”

A couple walks past them, talking, but their eyes obviously locked on the pair of them. Phobos raises his glass in a toast; Nesta doesn’t join him. Her blatant disrespect infuriates him, but before he can bark out a reprimand, a figure steps beside Nesta. A familiar and welcome presence.

“Phobos, stop antagonizing our guests.” Eris drawls, then his eyes slide towards Nesta. “Has he made an utter fool of himself yet?”

“Hmm.” Nesta considers slowly. “He has been making vague threats, but I’ve spent enough time with Rhysand to grow entirely too used to those.”

Eris smirks, eyes lit with humor. “Forgive my brother. He has yet to learn that in order to make threats, one generally needs to be in control of the situation and he is not.”

“Stay out of this Eris.” Phobos hisses, spots of vibrant red anger coloring his face now. “This does not concern you.”

“Does it not? As heir, it is my solemn duty to make sure we put our right foot forward with distinguished guests. You, on the other hand, should be concerned about only one thing right now and that is to ponder on two very important, dare I say life-saving questions. The first of which is: where is Deimos?”

The anger leeches out of Phobos’s face in an instant, leaving him deathly pale. “You wouldn’t… what did you do to him?”

Eris cocks an eyebrow. “Less than what he wanted to do to me and he should consider himself lucky for my mercy.”

The air gets stuck in Nesta’s lungs, the world balancing on a tightrope for a moment. Her mind runs wild with possibilities and with questions and she’s stuck on the most obvious and chilling one.

How he insisted she shouldn’t worry about Deimos.

“Eris it isn’t – ”

“Isn’t what?” Eris asks sweetly. “Isn’t personal? Isn’t like that? A plot to assassinate me is hardly something I’d call a simple misunderstanding. But I have to give credit for creativity. Trying to kill me in Spring and blaming it on the monster attacks? What a fine tribute to Castor and Damien, more Autumn blood to feed Spring’s soil. I didn’t think Deimos appreciated poetry like that.”

Phobos’ hand starts to shake, ever so slightly, the glass tilting with each tremble. His voice is scratchy when he pushes out “What’s the second question?”

“Oh, whether or not I have proof that you were involved.” Eris says simply. “I don’t, by the way. And for now, I think I’ll give a damn about that. I’d advise you to leave before my festive spirit wanes.”

As Phobos leaves, pale and rattled, Nesta stares at Eris. Eris, ignoring her searching gaze, plucks the glass from her hands and without inspecting it, pours the contents on the floor.

“Definitely spiked.” he tells her and sets the now empty glass down on the table. Then he smiles at Nesta, holding out his hand. “Shall we dance, or did you want a different drink?”

Nesta accepts the offer for a drink, taking small sips of her sparkling apple juice, buying herself time to slow down her racing mind. Then, once she lets Eris lead her to the dancefloor, mindful of the keen interest on the faces of all they pass, she asks: “What did you really do to Deimos?”

Eris scoffs, as if that’s a foolish question. “Hardly anything. I don’t want him dead; all arrows missed vital organs.” Nesta gives him an unimpressed look and Eris sighs dramatically, both waiting for the next song to start.

“Yes, I know, terrible of me to make a fuss during a celebration, it will be such a distraction,” he says pointedly. The distraction. This is the distraction he promised? “but one can hardly expect that I’d just lie down and let myself be killed. Lessons needed to be taught. He’ll be sorry to have missed the dancing, but maybe that will make him think twice about crossing me again.”

Every time Eris interacted with her tonight, he’d been wearing a mask, acting as if they didn’t know each other. For the first time, she sees a crack in that mask as he studies her, tracing her expression, trying to find… something.

Nesta isn’t sure she can offer him absolution, but she can offer him acknowledgement.

“Family is complicated.” she tells him, an echo of his earlier words. I see you, she means. She knows what he did and why. But he still did it. He still does this. The Autumn Court, his family, have sharpened him into something dangerous, something ruthless. This is as much a part of him as the male who makes her laugh and holds her through the pain. Both are true, both are him.

Nesta isn’t sure if she likes it or not, but she won’t ignore it, or sugarcoat it. He deserves better than that. He deserves to be seen for all that he is, like he sometimes seems to see her. And she deserves better than living with a self-inflicted blindness to truth.

Something settles in Eris at her words. His face smooths out. “It can be.”

A song starts up, a sad crooning tune and Eris moves. Nesta moves with him, letting the music carry them both. It feels right, dancing with him. She’s familiar with the language of his body now, knows which twitches mean that he is about to break from choreography, knows when he’s about to twirl her, or pull her close.

As she spins on her heels and sees him smile back at her, for a moment she forgets about the mission, about bloodied arrows, about the hungry gaze of the Autumn Court at their back. For one blessed moment, she is just a girl, at a ball, dancing with someone she cares about more than she should.

Chapter Text

The song draws to a close, the last notes fading out to be replaced by a polite smattering of applause. Some dancers bow to each other, either looking for new partners or simply to rest their feet. Nesta doesn’t let go of Eris’ hand.

Perhaps she should. But she doesn’t want to and Eris offers no resistance either. He stays where he is, with a barely there smile flitting across his face, less of satisfaction and more of contentment - all the more precious for his attempt to conceal it.

There are a few murmurs from the courtiers closest to them, intrigued by this turn of events. Nesta hasn’t danced with the same person twice tonight. Neither has Eris, this she knows.

Nesta takes a breath and exhales right as the first violin string is plucked.

This music is more intense than the one before, the percussion heavy and thudding against the lilting violins like a war song turned into a tortured love ballad - dramatic, as the Autumn Court prefers to be. Nesta is familiar with some of the moves and trusts Eris with the rest. He twirls her and she spins, more times than should be reasonable, but she does it, each calculated step and sweeping turn taking them further and further from the center of the ballroom and closer to the band, until the music vibrates against her very skin.

Once the melody drowns out the ambient chatter, he pauses, a tiny hitch, a deliberate flaw in their choreography. In their momentary standstill, his eyes fix on her, alarmingly – alluringly – intent. His voice barely carries over the music, blending in seamlessly with the beautiful and heartwrenching orchestration. “You’re so beautiful, Nesta.”

Nesta’s steps falter uncharacteristically as he guides her back into the flow of the music.

This isn’t the most extravagant compliment anyone has paid her. The duke she seduced at fourteen managed to write her a half-decent sonnet for his proposal. Tomas, for all his deficient intelligence, had made attempts at artistry too (though comparing her eyes to icy streams he’d wished to drown in was so overblown that Nesta - even wishing for an offer of marriage at the time - could not school her features into any semblance of flattered) and Cassian well. Nesta tries to recall the sweet but ultimately hollow promises he uttered on the battlefield as little as she can.

But there’s something strangely disarming about the raw, aching honesty in Eris’ words. As if her, with her hair slightly coming undone, her face flushed with exertion and joy, had the power to unmake him. As if she already had.

She’d like to think her heartbeat isn’t in sync with the frantic drum crescendo but decides against examining the matter too closely. Eris grins, shameless. “I’m well-aware this is hardly a secret to anyone with functioning eyes.” he says, clearly misinterpreting her silence. “Sometimes it’s not about the words, but how you say them. And you’re the only one allowed to catch me sappy.”

Nesta opens her mouth to be contrary but she catches sight of something troubling over Eris’ shoulders, something a bit more important than the need to tease her… her whatever Eris is to her.

“Your mother seems restless.” Nesta points out. The Lady of Autumn is discussing something with her husband, twitchy and a bit pale. Calida is obviously trying to bid off to leave and Beron, unfortunately, seems keen to accompany her. Whatever it is that he sees in his wife’s manner, it certainly roused his suspicion. “Unfortunately, your father does too.”

Eris expression falls. “That’s not good.”

Nesta thinks quick and hard. She’s the distraction, isn’t she? Her gaze travels to Eris’ mouth. Let’s make a scene.

“Do you trust me?” she asks, and for once the urgency in her voice stuns Eris enough to not play around with his words. He blinks, unguarded, unmasked.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Nesta leans forward and kisses him soundly. People gasp around them and Nesta would consider this as a success and the thought of stopping does cross her mind briefly. But then Eris pulls her in by the hand on the small of her back and deepens the kiss and well. If they’re meant to be a distraction, they might do a good job of it too.

She puts her arms around Eris’ neck, fingers tugging at his hair, just how she knows he likes it. He grins and nips at her bottom lip, and Nesta absolutely ignores the tiny desperate whimper that probably came from her. This time she does step back, but only so she can give him a resolute look before reaching up to pull the pin from her hair.

Eris stares at Nesta’s golden brown hair tumbling freely onto her shoulders, a little dazed, lips well-kissed. Nesta’s smirk is triumphant. This may not be how she imagined it would go down, but this is exactly the look she wanted to see.

She drops the pin into his hand, moving to clasp his fingers over it.

The closest dancers have all but given up the pretence of not spying on the two of them. Fervent whispers ripple outward, some low, rendered into nothing but noise, but some deliberately loud, meant to be overheard:

“Oh dear, where’s Tamlin now?”

“Has prince Eris ever had a lover?”

“And her sister too what a scandal – ”

“Kingslayer, kinglayer.”

“- it would certainly be an advantageous match.”

Nesta tunes out the crowd. Eris’ smirk, when it blooms, is just as triumphant as hers, as if he too, has won something precious. He runs thumb along the pin before pocketing it. He reaches for Nesta again, both of them taking up positions to continue the dance as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.

The Autumn Court, built on masks and lies, wastes no time jumping back to normalcy, though a much livelier normalcy than before.

“You’ve asked Lucien about our customs, I see.” Eris drawls, voice low. Nesta smirks back.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Eris laughs, delighted, wicked. “I knew you wouldn’t be caught dead unprepared.”

Nesta’s lips part in surprise, in understanding. He didn’t bring up the pin tonight, not once. She would have expected him to make some smug remark, but he hasn’t. This wasn’t a ploy, a way for him to teasingly and unknowingly lay claim to her. This was...

“You wanted me to ask, didn’t you? For me to flaunt this.” us, she thinks, but doesn’t feel right saying aloud yet.

Eris’s eyes glitter with self-satisfied humor. “I did. I rather fancy when I get what I want.”

A chuckle slips out of her, and Nesta feels her cheeks warm not with bashfulness but with near embarrassment that this is what does her in. This duplicitous snake. She wants to strangle him. She wants take him by the hand and fulfill the promise of that dragon pin, mission and audience be damned. “Incorrigable schemer.”

“Please, I’m already at your mercy dear, no need to seduce me further.” he says flippantly, and then his grin widens a touch. “And would you look at that. Two birds, one stone.”

He twirls her, so she can see what he has: Calida left the celebrations, but Beron stayed behind. He watches the pair of them with a calculating expression, which is a relief. But, they didn’t only capture his attention.

Cassian stands stock still at the other end of the ballroom, just staring at the two of them, jaw gritted so tightly Nesta thinks it may crack. When their gazes meet, he jolts like he woke from a nightmare and his nostrils flare. Feyre grabs onto him, mumbling something that only earns an angry retort from him, before he stalks out the room like a wounded animal, Rhys following on his heels.

Lucien navigates the Forest House with ease. Elain tries to keep pace with him, taking in the barren, stone walls around her, while careful to keep her head lowered as she was instructed. No servant would be caught gawking and they must appear subservient to Beron, even if the male is nowhere in sight.

They leave behind the dusty secret corridors and emerge into the area near the servants’ quarters. They meet a few people hurrying from one place or another, but luckily all of them are either too busy to pay them much attention, or too nervous to.

Minutes pass with them walking with purpose - but with little sense of direction on Elain’s part - before Lucien signals them to stop. He walks over to a wall marked only by a gigantic portrait of Beron and motions for them to follow, disappearing into the wall as if it was made of liquid. Elain takes a deep breath and steps through the magical shortcut.

It’s strange, being in this space-that-isn’t, much like a dream, where your body, though it moves, nevertheless feels disconnected from your mind, floating inches apart. There are darker patches across an endless, eye-watering white, forming a large circle. Lucien walks in through one such path - that on closer inspection hides a darkened corridor - and Elain and Helion go after him.

This corridor isn’t markedly different from the one they walked through before. But there are less servants here and they’re infinitely more rattled, like a whisper would make them jump. Elain feels her heart twinge in sorrow. How terrible it must be to live like this, afraid every hour of every day.

She glances at Lucien’s profile, at the tension written in the lines of his body, and her sorrow deepens. It doesn’t matter if you’re a prince, or if you’re the help. Beron spares no one his terror.

After walking for what feels like forever (during which Feyre checks in with her three times, so it must indeed take long) Lucien stops in his tracks so suddenly that Elain nearly collides into his back. He does a sweep around the area and, finding it clear, nudges them towards a solid wall before stepping through himself. Despite having walked through a wall tonight before, trepidation still surges through her.

The barrier of illusion hiding Beron’s study doesn’t feel solid, nor viscous, but there is something heavy in the enchantment, like walking through a thick, ash-filled cloud, that clings uncomfortably to her skin and makes the back of her throat itch.

As Elain’s disorientation clears, she takes in the clear, gray tiles on the floor and instinctively shuffles back a step. One wrong move and they’ll be transported by the enchantment into Beron’s dungeons.

Lucien pulls out Eris’ notes from his pocket. He’s studied it before, they all have. But better safe than sorry, or, in this case, locked up. With a confident look, Lucien steps on the second tile to the left, then crosses diagonally to the right. He walks slowly so Elain can mimic his movements. Helion follows after them, the wrong tiles sparking golden if he gets too close.

It takes them another minute of dancing across the edge of a knife to reach a large, iron wrought door. Helion gets to work immediately without a word of bravado. Elain exchanges a look with Lucien, who inclines his head in acknowledgment: he too has noticed that the High Lord of Day has grown more and more pensive as the evening went on.

Reddish-orange swirls and shapes hover over the door, blinking in and out of existence, sometimes dissolving, sometimes swallowed up by golden veins. Elain watches them flicker, transfixed. Lucien nudges her, a small smirk on his face. “He does that on purpose you know.”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t normally see an enchantment. Helion renders them visible on purpose so he can show-off.”

Helion laughs, a warm fully-belly laugh that, to Elain’s relief, doesn’t sound forced. Magic still whirls across the door, but he turns his head so he can look at them too. “Who can resist showing off a little in the presence of such divine beauty?” he says, winking at Elain.

Elain’s lips quirk. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid your flattery is wasted on me.”

“It’s only a waste if my aim is to get you in bed.”

There’s a soft, swiftly aborted growl that sneaks past Lucien’s lips and Elain giggles, patting his arm.

“If your aim is to antagonize my poor mate, it’s working splendidly.”

There’s a ripple of shocked pleasure that flits across the bond at her words and Elain smiles sunnily. Lucien looks very much like he wants to kiss her and he’s obvious enough about it that Helion snickers.

“Oh to be newly mated and in love.” he croons, with just enough of a bitter aftertaste that Elain’s brow pinches, distracted by this puzzle. The enchantment over the door flashes in one vibrant last hurrah and then it fizzles out entirely.

Helion grabs the door handle and swings it open. “After you.”

Beron’s study is… peculiar. It’s obvious it’s meant to be neat, in general. There are bookshelves with – based on the titles alone – tomes organized by topic, labelled file cabinets, paperwork tidily placed in folders. And yet, on the desk, there are a number of books left open in a hurry, notes sticking out every which way. The contrast with the rest of the room betrays an urgency that sets Elain on edge.

Lucien picks up the closest notes, with a grim look. “Reports from our soldiers in Spring. Fortifications, weaknesses…”

Elain walks past him, her attention stolen by a faint sketch lying atop an open book. The sketch is familiar because it is of the Night Court’s territory. But it’s also eerily unfamiliar. The contours of it are wrong, the Sidra bending there rather than going straight down, the size a little too big, a thousand tiny things off but there’s no mistaking it: that’s Velaris. Velaris that should not be included on any map drawn by foreign hands.

Elain swallows. Briallyn told Beron. Of course she did. What reason would she have had to hide the secret of Velaris, really?

There’s something written below the city, and Elain expects the usual moniker, “the City of Starlight” except that’s not what it is. Instead, in tiny letters, what she finds is “The Foot of the Throne”. She frowns in incomprehension until she notices three other places marked too: Hewn City as the “Throne of the Gods”, the Prison as the “Eternal Prison” and Ramiel as the “Cradle of Monsters.”

Helion picks up a few books at random, face scrunched up in distaste. “Beron’s more obsessed with the Night Court than we thought. When Rhys asked me to strengthen the wards on the Prison I thought he was being paranoid over Beron. Shockingly, I feel he wasn’t paranoid enough.”

“There’s a few things about the Daglan too.” Lucien adds, skimming titles. “And Koschei, the Weaver…”

Elain pushes the map to the side and makes a noise of surprise. The book it was nestled in is entirely illegible, written in strange, unfamiliar runes. Helion and Lucien both look over. Helion asks her to move a bit to the side and examines the book with care.

“This book is written in the language of the Daglan.” he says. “I recognize the letters but that’s about it. Hardly anyone speaks it anymore.”

Lucien flashes a wry grin. “I doubt my father suddenly developed an interest for dead languages.”

Helion raises a hand and yanks, golden magic flashing, tangled in threads of black coiled tightly around the book “As suspected: someone very powerful enchanted this book so he could read it.”

“Briallyn’s gift.” Lucien says, staring at the words as if he tried hard enough, he could understand them. “Can you modify the spell so we can read it too?”

“Definitely. But quickly? Definitely not.”

Elain places a hand on the page. “May I?”

Unlike Jurian, objects couldn’t help her reach for that long gone time by thinking of it. But unlike the tales of Koschei, these pages did witness things she needs, this study has been home to a number of sordid discussions she wants to hear for herself.

This place has memories for her, she just needs to listen deeper.

Her hand flexes on the page, and she inhales its old book smell and beyond that, something else, something unnatural. Briallyn’s scent, according to Eris. Remember, help me remember…

“A gift.” Briallyn declares, as the book lands on the floor with a loud thud. Beron glares at the indignity of having to stoop down to reach it. “From our lord master.”

“Most gracious.” he answers. Briallyn’s rotted teeth flash.

“Most impatient too. You know I could always snare a bat. They do buzz about in the night.”

“That’s too risky. If we fail and Rhysand learns what we’re after – ”

“Have it your way. But you’d do well to remember that Lord Koschei isn’t the only one whose patience is running thin.”

What are you after? Elain thinks, keeping her claws in the memory offered to her. She knows how to scry, how to find things without bones and stones. She’s done it before. It’s risky, she knows, but as the thought occurs to her “is it the Harp?” she digs deep and the picture in front of her disappears.

She’s walking down halls then, long halls cloaked in darkness, with rows of doors on each side. There’s a chill in the air, a quiet menace that makes her shudder with fear, but there’s a song too, beautiful, charming, coming from a cavern of black rock.

At the center of the room is a golden harp.

And she realizes that the song she’s been hearing is nothing but a melodic plea, repeated over and over. Play with me, play with me. It’s been so long, locked away, imprisoned. Find me. Play with me.

She reaches for the harp when the temperature in the room drops. Instead of music, there’s the wind. Instead of rock beneath her feet, there’s squelching mud. The shadows press ever closer.

“What have we here?” a voice calls out, amused, grating. Elain turns towards it and her blood turns cold. There, disembodied and hovering over a swan, is something she has only seen in nightmares and visions. Long black robes, hiding a shape of shades, glinting teeth smiling at her from the dark. Koschei. “A seer, a spy, a thief.”

Elain is rooted to the spot in fear. The swan looks sickly, barely alive, either unconscious of the danger or no longer bothered by it. Koschei’s spindly arm reaches out from beneath his robes, curling towards it like a hook on tightly drawn fishing rod, and a bright light bubbles out from the beak of the listless swan. As it leaves, hairline fissures begin to form all over its body until it splinters and cracks like an egg. The light travels upwards, pulled by Koschei’s hand towards his lips and then… he swallows it. He glows with a bright, white light from within and Elain is horrified to notice that he looks realer afterwards, the shadows beneath coalescing into something with solidity and weight.

Elain gathers her wits suddenly as the shadow stalks forward, but fear makes her clumsy. She stumbles on a crooked root and falls into the mud. Koschei grabs her by the throat and lifts her into the air. She doesn’t need air in a vision, but his searing cold touch makes Elain’s eyes water in pain all the same. She kicks helplessly and tries to reach for Lucien, the anchor that always helped lead her back to reality. At first Koschei only smiles at her misery, but then his eyes trail to the side and his smile turns into a sneer.

“How romantic.” he says, and from the corner of her eye, Elain sees what he means. A golden thread, shimmering but visible, unspooling from her chest. “Will your mate feel it? If I devour your soul right here, right now, thief of mine?”

Elain draws a gasping breath and tries to think past the pain. She feels Lucien around her, feels his panic as a lance through her chest, and grabs tight onto it. She will have one chance and one chance only. This is a place of souls and minds. He isn’t holding her with his hand, but with his will: she simply has to break it.

“You poor thing,” she manages “how must you long for love, to mock it so.”

Anger ripples across Koschei, and though his fist tightens, his mental grasp on her slips in his fury. They don’t have bodies here, neither of them. They’re just spirits here and Elain wills hers to plunge, deep into Koschei’s. Searching, looking, like she did with the Harp. Except it’s not the Harp she wants.

She passes through him, and it feels like diving into an icy lake. Water is around her, dark and unknowable but there, there in the lakebed, something gleaming, something black. The shadows in the water smother her, winding around her body, but she focuses on her bond, her lifeline, and the world around her glows golden before –

“Elain! Thank the Mother!” Lucien cries. As she comes to, she notices that she’s on the floor, with his arms around her, and both Lucien and Helion watch her with horrorstruck expressions. “You fell to the floor, choking! What in the Cauldron’s name happened?!”

“Koschei, he saw me.” she says, trembling and Lucien's body grows taut. “As I was looking, he saw me. He… oh gods, he eats the souls of his prisoners to gain strength and…” she burrows her face into Lucien’s chest and takes a shaky breath. She reminds herself to focus. “The Harp, I think it’s in the Prison. But I… Koschei saw me, but I saw him too. His box is in the lake.”

“Fuck - okay, fuck.” Lucien mutters, breathless. Elain feels the press of lips against her hair. “Alright. You did good. You did good, Elain.” he says and he’d almost sound casual and calm about it if Elain didn’t feel how rigid the arms holding her still were. “We have what we came for so now we should get the hell out of here.”

“Okay.” Elain agrees, reluctantly letting herself be helped to her feet.

Lucien keeps holding on to her as they exit, and all the while Helion meticulously redoes the wards. Elain wishes she could reach out to her sisters, to warn them somehow, but knows that Feyre won’t feel it, no matter how desperately she screams at her in her own mind.

They should check in any minute now, hopefully.

Feyre is more patient than Nesta would give her credit for. Her sister waits until she finishes her dance with Eris and the heir of Autumn is a safe distance away. Cassian and Rhys, as far as Nesta is aware, haven’t yet returned. So, well and truly stewing about it then.

When Nesta once again makes a beeline for the buffet, that’s when Feyre’s voice trickles into her mind. Oh, but she hates how easily she can do it. “What was that about, Nesta?”

Nesta rolls her eyes, even though Feyre can’t see it. She hopes her daemati powers are good enough that she can somehow pick up on it anyway. “I’m the distraction, remember? We made a spectacle of ourselves.”

There’s a brief pause there, a relief that Feyre lets her feel. “I told Cassian that. But he wouldn’t listen.”

Why should I care? the thought comes unbidden, brittle and bitter. Nesta doesn’t outright reply to Feyre’s half-asked question, and instead poses one of her own even if she knows the answer. “Him and Rhys haven’t returned yet?”

“No. Cassian was really upset.”

Nesta almost snorts. “Poor him.”

“Nesta! Can you imagine how it must feel to – ” but Feyre’s chastizing lecture cuts off abruptly. Too abruptly. ”Just be kind to him, alright?”

Nesta lets the silence speak for her, and feels Feyre’s presence withdraw. At first, she thinks it’s because her sister realized she has no right to meddle in these things. But then she hears it.

“Lady Archeron.” that’s the second time a slimy Vanserra voice has ruined her evening. But this time there will be no rescue for her. She turns to Beron and plasters on her most believable polite smile.

“High Lord.”

Beron looks deceptively casual, deceptively friendly. But Nesta is hardly foolish enough to be lulled into a false sense of security.

“Forgive me if I don’t ask you for a dance. There are already too many whispers about how Tamlin has been cuckolded by yet another Archeron sister, with my heir no less. I would hate to add fuel to the fire.”

“Are you offering to share idle gossip with me instead of a dance?”

“No.” Beron says, his lips twitching in grudging respect over her bluntness. “As trite as it may sound, consider this mere fatherly concern.”

“My sister and I had a few disagreements about my life choices.” Nesta says lightly. “I am no longer welcome in her Court.”

“Everyone in court was dying to learn what happened. Who knew all they needed to do was ask about something else.”

“One of the disagreements concerned the affections of a certain member of the Night Court.” Nesta lies smoothly. Although it is hardly a lie – just because it hasn’t happened yet, doesn’t mean Feyre isn’t itching to get into it afterwards. “Eris was ever obliging in helping me send a clear message.”

Beron’s gaze cuts across the dancefloor to Eris, who is apparently holding court. He is engaged in animated discussion with several Autumn nobles, a sly smile on his face.

“How peculiar. He said the exact same thing.”

Nesta arches an eyebrow. “If you already had your answer, why ask me?”

Now Beron laughs. It’s a distinctly unkind noise, and Nesta feels discomfited in its wake. “If I could trust him, I wouldn’t have raised him right.”

“Right?” it slips out of her mouth without censure. “Have you… do you even know where Prince Deimos is right now? My lord.” she tacks on as an afterthought.

“The infirmary. Or the grave, if Eris’ assassin did a sloppy job.” he says easily and grins at the disgust on Nesta’s face in the wake of his unfeeling reply. “Of all my sons, Deimos does have some potential, I’ll admit. Phobos is desperate to the point of being clumsy and Aiden wastes all his talent playing games from the shadows. Deimos has sense enough to be cautious and a drive to be efficiently ruthless. There’s just one thing that he lacks.”

Beron’s stare turns piercing, intent. “Do you know why Eris is my favorite?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“Eris knows when he should be brutal, when he should inspire fear. But he also knows when he should be charming.” Beron’s smile is as nasty as his laugh. “And he can be ever so charming, Lady Archeron.”

Nesta narrows her eyes. So that’s what this was all about. Not fishing for information (though conflicting stories would surely have given them away) but to issue a warning. To sow distrust. Nesta quirks a smile. Should she trust Eris? Debatable. But should she trust Beron to suddenly care for her wellbeing? Absolutely not.

“Are you concerned for me, Lord Beron,” Nesta asks sweetly “or for yourself?”

Anger contorts Beron’s face for a moment, but he masters himself quickly. “You’re very valuable Nesta. To some as allies, to some as pawns, to some as dead. I would keep that in mind.”

“One of your sons made the very same threats to me tonight. The one you chided for being desperate and clumsy.”

“I never make threats.” Beron says with a razor sharp smile. “If I wished to harm you, you would be harmed. This, this was a piece of friendly advice. The last I’ll offer tonight. Enjoy what remains of the evening, lady.”

Nesta offers him a half-curtsy as he passes, and then her attention snaps back to Eris. He doesn’t notice her, doesn’t magically feel her gaze on him and look back. She doesn’t know why she would expect him to. Still, she looks, studying the curve of his mouth, the glint of mischief in his gaze, the way his hands move gracefully in the air as he makes a particular point.

There’s a tightness to her chest. She wishes she could cross the room right now, to make scathing comments about Beron, to let herself be comforted by Eris’ sharp tongue in turn. It’s a fierce, aching wanting that she isn’t used to and is a little alarmed by. But it’s there all the same.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a loud clamoring near the entrance, shouts and yells of guards. A soldier, by the look of his battered armor, pushes his way through the crowd. He looks pale and haggard, with faint, healing scratches across freckled cheeks, and wheat colored hair marred by dirt and blood. But he seems unconcerned with his own wellbeing: his eyes go to the dais with a sense of desperation and he takes a half step towards it before he stops suddenly. There’s only Aiden left up there, the male’s mouth parted in surprise before his expression is schooled back into something resembling neutral concern as he quickly assesses the other’s wounds.

The soldier doesn’t look away until he notices Eris rushing towards him. Nesta moves before she can make the conscious decision to do so. She arrives to catch only the tail end of what was being said, the soldier shaking his head with a hysteric expression.

“I do not know General. The others are outside, those of us that are left. But I had to – ” here he trails off, noticing Nesta, and his eyes go wide. “You! Masked Death! I remember your face!”

Nesta stops too. The soldiers. Eris’s ensorcelled soldiers? They’ve been released? Why? How?

“What is the meaning of this?” she asks Eris, who looks as lost as she is.

“Tristan,” he starts, in a carefully gentle tone, like he’s talking to a spooked horse “do you remember anything, anything at all about how you got free?”

Tristan shakes his head again, tears springing to his eyes. “No, Cauldron save me, I don’t. There was a voice, a reedy voice in our head always chanting and we couldn’t think, we couldn’t move and suddenly it stopped. So many, we lost so many General, I watched them drown – ”

Tristan breaks down into tears, falling to the floor. Eris lowers himself to the ground, laying a hand on his shoulder, then turning to the dais. “Aiden! Fetch the healers!”

After the Phobos’ hissy fit, Nesta would have expected Aiden to be similarly offended at being ordered around. But Aiden simply nods and slinks out of the room without a single backward glance.

A hush falls across the entire ballroom, as more and more people become aware of the scene unfolding before them. The musicians falter, missing a few notes, wondering if they should keep playing.

Nesta notices Beron making a hand gesture for them to keep going, and the melody starts up again, quieter, but present.

A crowd gathers around them, as Eris tries in vain to soothe the weeping male in front of him. There’s a pinprick in Nesta’s skull; she feels Feyre’s panic before she hears her words.

“Nesta, I think Rhys is in trouble. He keeps slipping away and… I can barely feel him.”

Chapter Text

Elain is walking beside Lucien, careful to keep a low profile. For one reason or another, there are more servants rushing around now, which sets her ill at ease. And then, as if summoned by her gloomy thoughts, Feyre appears in her head, thoughts edged with panic.

“Elain? Are you there?”

“Yes, what – ”

“Rhys disappeared.” Feyre cuts in, impatient. “He’s alive, I know he is, but I can’t reach him and… he breaks through sometimes and he’s in so much pain, I can’t – ”

Feyre can’t quite finish the thought, sending instead such wealth of misery through their mental link that Elain would have stopped in her tracks even if she wasn’t worried about Rhys herself too. There’s a heartbeat where shock trumps her good sense before all at once, she understands what has happened.

“They’re at the Prison!” Elain thinks back swiftly. “You need to stop them!”

“The Prison? Why would they be – ”

Time is of the essence so Elain feels no remorse interrupting her sister, nor for not being able to offer adequate explanations.

“Just trust me! The Harp is at the Prison! That’s what they were plotting: a break-in!”

“And Rhys is the only one who can…” Feyre trails off, her fear diminishing in the face of her resolve now that she has a mission to focus on. Now that she knows where her love has gone. “We need to hurry. We’ll meet you there?”

Elain catches the glance of a puzzled Lucien and gives him a slow nod in confirmation that she’s talking to Feyre, then tells her sister:“Hopefully.”

Once their connection fizzles out, Elain takes a shaky breath and faces her companions. She lowers her voice. “Something happened upstairs. Rhys is… he’s gone. Likely ensorcelled, if Feyre can’t reach him.”

“The Prison.” Lucien says.

“Even with Rhys, it’ll take them at least an hour to chew through the new wards.” Helion tells them, which loosens some of the breath trapped in Elain’s lungs.

“Thank the Cauldron we knew what they were plotting.” she says. An hour should be more than enough time for Feyre to put an end to their machinations before it could begin. Hopefully.

“Excuse me.” they hear a voice behind them. It’s quiet, timid, likely afraid: Elain starts all the same, as if caught red-handed. When they turn, they see a young serving girl walking over to them. She looks absolutely terrified, her teeth chattering with it, eyes skittering everywhere but them. “I know all faces in Lord Beron’s House and. May I ask, what are you doing here?”

It’s a very polite way of asking them to identify themselves immediately. Even though the servant clearly fears offending them in case they have reason to be here, she fears displeasing Beron above all else and soon politeness will have no place in this conversation.

They tarried too long in one place and made people look.

“We only –” Lucien starts, tone apologetic, no doubt about to begin weaving some silver-tongued lie, when Helion’s breath hitches. From the other end of the corridor, a shadow begins to take the shape of a lady.

Still in fine jewellery and a gown the red of rich wine, it’s clear she came directly from the ball. But it’s not the elegance that gives her away: it’s the vibrant, fiery red hair and the same russet eyes Elain so adores that tell her that this must be the Lady of the Autumn Court. Lucien’s mother.

The Lady of Autumn is worryingly pale, but that doesn’t diminish the authority from her voice as she speaks. “It’s alright, Meli. They’re with me.”

“My lady!” Meli squeaks and curtsies. “Apologies, apologies!”

“No need. You were only being diligent, for which I thank you. Now go, I will handle them.”

“Yes, of course!”

Meli scurries off in a different direction than she was headed, likely too spooked to be in the presence of her sovereign for long. The Lady of Autumn stares at them for a while, thoughtfully, eyes fixing on Helion, who stares back, just as intently. Lucien’s expression is artfully blank, but even without reaching for the bond she knows he is anything but. They are wearing glamours, which should hold. They’ll hopefully hold.

The Lady of Autumn sighs, still addressing Helion. “Surely, you don’t think you of all people can possibly fool me.”

Helion’s entire face transforms, split wide open by a dazzling grin that looks sincere, even if Elain doubts very much that his heart is in it. One male, feigning calm, the other, cheer. “Wasn’t counting on having to fool you. Strange that we keep meeting like this, Callie.”

“Don’t call me that.” The Lady of Autumn – Callie? – retorts, less with heat and more with the ashes of resignation. Helion’s grin almost slips, voice softening a touch.

“That’s familiar too.”

They keep looking at each other, like time has stopped for them or maybe ran backwards for just a moment. The air is so filled with memories that Elain feels her skull buzz and distantly she hears a wail, of a child, of a female, or perhaps both, but she shakes her head, trying to dislodge the visions flitting by from her brain. She shouldn’t pry and she should not get lost in her head right now either.

“There’s no chance you’re willing to forget you saw me, is there, Calida?”

Calida sighs again, the noise almost long-suffering, so at odds with what she caught them doing. She beckons for them to follow mutely, and, having no other choice, they do.

They don’t go far, just slip into a small nearby room. It’s dark in there, illuminated only by a small, swaying lantern. The light bouncing to and fro catches on the metal of chains and makes the dried blood on the floor gleam. The whole place smells of ash, of burnt hair and meat, scorch marks littering the wall. There’s nothing in here, no fanciful instruments of pain, because there doesn’t need to be: not when the master of this domain can inflict torture without iron or steel.

Because it is a torture room, Elain thinks, and the realization turns her stomach. Calida looks unsettled by their surroundings too, her eyes downcast, her chest heaving slightly.

“No one comes here, if they can avoid it.” she says with quiet bitterness. “This is the closest to privacy I can offer you. What in the immortal land of milk and honey possessed you to come here, Helion?”

“We’re here to save the world, haven’t you heard?” Helion replies easily.

“From my husband?” Calida asks, but even as she says it, her shoulders haunch in dejection, in defeat. “Yes, I suppose someone must. Just as I suppose I ought not ask if Eris put you up to this. Was your search fruitful?”

Lucien takes a step closer, putting himself between his mother and Helion. His manner is impeccably polite, if woefully impersonal: “It was. I am very sorry, but we don’t have time to explain everything. Someone we know is in grave danger, so as grateful as we are for your assistance, we do need to leave.”

For the first time since they’ve met, Calida considers Elain and Lucien more deeply. “And who might you two be?”

Lucien's throat bobs, no lie coming swiftly to his tongue in the face of that russet stare. He falters, perhaps just for a second too long. “Nobody important.”

There must have been something in that hesitation, in that carefully toneless answer that tipped Calida off. Her eyes swing from Lucien to Helion, with mounting suspicion. The math isn’t impossible, once you come down to it. Eris has confided in her enough so she knows that they’re likely here on his behest. She has most certainly seen whatever stir Nesta and Tamlin caused upstairs, and now she caught Helion.

They could be nobodies. That is a far likelier option, even by Elain’s estimate. But Lucien has been known to follow close wherever Tamlin and Feyre went, and if they’d want a guide, they could ask for none better. Hope is hard to extinguish, even if there’s only the slimmest of chances. But mere hope doesn’t equate to belief either. She may wish, but for now, she doesn’t know.

Something in Lucien seems to crack, just a tiny bit.

“Please.” he says, when he hasn’t truly asked for anything at all.

If Elain could see Papa again, she doesn’t know how much it would tear her apart to keep from rushing into his arms. Perhaps that’s why Lucien is so alarmed by the prospect that Calida would recognize him. If she embraced him, perhaps it would be that much harder to leave.

Calida draws in a shaky breath, tears gathering in her eyes. She doesn’t know, not for certain, and that's its own kind of torture. “Okay.” she says, then repeats it, with more strength behind it. “Okay. The winnowing wards are laxer, on account of the ball, as I imagine you know. You can’t winnow from the House, but the courtyard… if you accompany me, no one will stop you. We can just leave through the front door. I can help you. Let me help you.”

“That would put you at risk.” Lucien shakes his head. “We can leave the same way we came.”

“If time is of the essence, you can’t waste it avoiding sentries.” Calida argues, wiping at her face. “It’s a nice, simple walk. The servants won’t question me and Beron is occupied in the ballroom besides.”

Before anyone can offer protests Elain gives the Lady of Autumn a smile. “Thank you.” she tells her solemnly. “We are in your debt.”

Calida gives her a small smile and swishes out the room. The three of them follow her in an oppressing quiet, walking down corridors, passing through another magical shortcut. Elain keeps paranoidly expecting someone to jump from the shadows, but no one does.

As they draw closer to the ballroom Elain catches the trail end of shouts about Eris’ soldiers and the High Lady of Night storming away with Nesta, both incidents rocking the nobility enough to keep them preoccupied. As they reach the thick of it, Calida whispers “good luck” and then, when Elain glances back, she is gone, slipping back into the crowd effortlessly.

Elain turns to Lucien and grabs his hand. He doesn’t need to say anything. He watches the crowd and exhales, like a weight pressing down on him has been removed, but the longing in his eyes tells her that perhaps that relief makes it worse. It’s awful, to come so close and to have to leave.

But they both know they still have a job to do.

Feyre rushes to her, face set in the hard lines of determination, unheeding of the eyes on them. Nesta starts to scan the room for Beron, but her sister grabs her arm and with it, her full attention.

“They’re at the Prison. We need to go.” Feyre pushes the thought into her mind, then she says, aloud. “Nesta, please, can we talk somewhere private?”

Nesta glances fleetingly at Eris, still trying to comfort his soldier. He doesn’t look back, preoccupied as he is. “What about the others? Eris?” Nesta asks in her mind, reluctantly adding “Tamlin?”

“It’s fine. I’ve let the others know we had to step out.” Feyre says. “We can’t afford to wait for them.”

Nesta doesn’t know how wise that is, rushing after danger without back-up, leaving everyone to find their own way out of the Forest House. But faced with the memory of Feyre’s anguish in her mind, it’s not much of a question at all. Nesta turns back towards Eris, wresting his attention back from Tristan.

“Eris,” she says, continuing only once that amber gaze rests on her “Feyre and I need to talk. Do convey our apology to your father for our hasty exit. If you can find him, that is.”

Eris’s expression sours at the revelation that Beron has used the confusion of the evening to slip away, but publicly only agrees to pass their message on. Feyre practically runs through the crowd and into the courtyard, right to the edge of the winnowing wards. The moment they reach it, Feyre grabs her hands. Nesta barely has time to nod her assent and then they’re away.

The place where they rematerialize is… desolate. The air feels heavy, expectant, the mountain itself thrumming with restlessness. As if the inhabitants have heard of the intrusion and are holding their breath too. The moment they touch ground Feyre begins to rush upwards on the steep, rocky mountain side and Nesta gathers her long skirts and speeds after her, as fast as she can without tripping.

Feyre abruptly clutches her chest, her breath coming out ragged. She glances up towards the height and sees the massive bone-arch gateway and sparks of light that penetrate the darkness of the fallen night.Throwing caution to the wind, she materializes wings and turns to Nesta with a wild-eyed look.

“We need to fly up there.” she says, barely remembering to keep her voice low.

Nesta gives her an incredulous look back. “They’ll see us coming. They will try to shoot us down.”

“They’ll see us coming if we hike up too.” Feyre gestures ahead, frustration lacing her words. “We’ll just lose time, time we don’t have!”

Nesta almost hears a faint whiff of a laughter carried by the wind, but she shakes off the unsettling feeling. “Can you even carry me?”

Feyre’s expression turns just the slightest bit sheepish. “I can, ah, alter more about myself than just add wings. Muscles.” she lifts her arm helplessly. “I could carry Rhys well enough so…”

Nesta is suddenly fervently certain she doesn’t want to know what the hell happened that renders even her normally shameless sister almost flustered and tight-lipped. She blows the air out through her nose, mutters an unenthusiastic “fine” and lets Feyre scoop her up and shoot off into the sky.

They’re spotted, because obviously they are. Nesta sees the bright red light hurtling towards them before she sees the group gathered around the gates. It’s instinct, blind and panicked instinct. Feyre tries to swerve, her movement not nearly quick enough, weighed down by Nesta. But Nesta is quick.

“Fire isn’t only good for destruction.” Eris told her, during their third training session. Nesta had nearly rolled her eyes as she flatly answered:

“Fire can lend warmth, cauterize wounds. Normal fire. Not my fire.” she started at her hands, before bitterly shaking her head. “My fire is good for nothing but ruin.”

Eris tutted her. “That’d make it a good shield too.”

“A shield?”

“Yes. If it’s pure ruin, use that. It destroys everything in its path dear, which may include the forces coming for you too.”

Nesta feels her eyes flash as fire erupts around her and Feyre, silvery and utterly, dreadfully cold. The flames burn bright, swallowing, consuming the energy blast from Cassian. Feyre, to her credit, doesn’t waste time on shock and instead uses the sparkling collision of light to cover for them as she swandives towards land.

Nesta nearly stumbles as they land and she is abruptly released. Briallyn is still in the fine, midnight blue gown she must have donned for Beron’s ball, but with the glamour dropped, Nesta can see the shriveled and rotted woman in her true visage. The Crown on her head glints with an eerie glow, but the queen is hunched, bent over, pain marring her face, as if holding Rhysand down is taking all her strength.

She was smart enough to realize they’re not easy pickings and instead of blasting them again, she has instructed Cassian to shield as well. The High Lord of Night doesn’t face them, all his attention focused on unraveling the wards, but Cassian does, his eyes empty and vacant of any recognition or struggle.

“How do you want to do this?” Nesta asks Feyre. “Should I destroy the shield?”

But Feyre ignores her, instead taking a step closer, calling out a choked up: “Rhys?”

Whatever Feyre has done, whether she reached out mentally or if simply her voice was enough, Rhys visibly bucks, his concentration broken and so does Cassian, the shield momentarily fizzing out of existence. Briallyn screeches.

“No! No!” the crone gathers herself and the Crown glows brighter and once more Rhysand slips away from them. Cassian looks disoriented, panicked, but before he can piece together the situation Briallyn cries out. “Subdue him! Kill them!”

Cassian looks fearful for only a second before Rhysand takes control once more. Rhys is still twitching and gasping for air, trying to fight it off, but even so, his feet move and the two males turn against Feyre and Nesta. Feyre looks horrified, frozen.

“Feyre,” Nesta calls out, drawing her attention “if you have a plan, now is the time.”

But even as Nesta says it she feels it, claws against her mind, trying to gain purchase. Sometimes she sees a hint of terror on Rhys’ face before it blinks out and the claws dig deeper. That’s probably the only reason they’re still alive, the only reason Rhys hasn’t misted them away. They’re still trying to fight this off, as much as they can. Sadly, as their hands are tied, so are the Archerons’. Nesta falls to her knees, her nose bleeding, and she knows she could repel them. Blast them away, burn them away. But she can’t. She can’t.

From the corner of her eyes, she sees Feyre stand tall, her knees wobbling only the slightest bit against Rhys’ mental onslaught. But she sees Cassian too, charging, jumping at Feyre. Feyre evades him at the last moment, raising her hand to swat him away with a powerful gust of wind. But if he felt the pain of the fall, Cassian certainly doesn’t seem to show it.

The claws in Nesta’s head dig deeper, finding purchase and she grits her jaw to avoid screaming. She hears a voice in his head, seductive but emotionless.

“Stop breathing.”

The command is powerful, the pressure is overwhelming. Nesta faintly hears Feyre cry out, forced to blast Cassian away again and again, because he just can’t stay down and she can’t hurt him, but her vision is growing spottier. Her chest rattles with coiled emptiness, but there’s no relief, no air.

“No!” Feyre shouts and the High Lady of the Night Court explodes in a burst of white light, shining as bright as a star being born, disorienting their enemies. Then Nesta feels the claws ease as if they’re pried from her skull by strong hands. She feels Feyre’s presence, shining, enraged, right before it tackles Rhys’, fully pushing him out of Nesta’s mind.

Nesta sucks in a gulp of freeing air and takes a frantic look around. Feyre and Rhys are locked in a battle of wills, sweat beading their faces. A vibrant red light flickers in and out of Cassian’s siphons, trying his best not to fire at her sister. And there’s Briallyn, edging away from the battle, as far as she can go, towards the edge of the mountain. For the first time, Nesta has a clear and unobstructed view of her and she snarls. Briallyn never ordered Rhysand or Cassian to protect her. An oversight which Nesta intends to make her pay for.

A blast of frigid flame tears towards the crone who notices the danger only just in time: she jumps to the side inelegantly, so it tears at her shoulder rather than burning through her heart. Briallyn howls as her clothes catch fire, flailing to put it out in vain. Her control over Rhys must slip, because no one comes for her as Nesta rises to her feet shakily, silver flames gathering in her palms. But as she sends another ball of fire arcing towards Briallyn simply lets herself fall before it can meet her.

Nesta stares at her, shocked. Flames still swirl over her palm. There’s a grunt behind her and she turns to watch Cassian stagger, the light winking out from his siphons. And then he screams towards the sky, a sound of pain and utter impotent rage.

Between one second and the next, Rhysand’s knees buckle and only Feyre’s quick reflexes stop him from falling on the ground. Feyre cradles him to her chest and slowly lowers the both of them to sitting.

“Feyre?” he asks and Feyre kisses him softly.

“I’m here, I’m here.” she repeats, a reassurance and a vow.

“Feyre.” he breathes and burrows his head against her beating heart.

Cassian looks first to Rhysand and Feyre locked in a sorrowful embrace, then to Nesta. His gaze lingers on her for a beat, before he hastily looks away. His face is still carved with fury, leashed, but only barely. “What the fuck did just happen Rhys?”

Elain nearly trips twice, climbing up the rocky mountain side as fast as she can. Lucien has learnt to look out for it, to brace himself in case she needs help, which is sweet of him. Because she does need help. She really does.

She may like nature, far more than her sisters, but that doesn’t mean she’s used to hiking. She could enjoy this, she thinks, under more pleasant circumstances and then she firmly files this thought away for later.

The bone-gates are still far off when she sees it, a figure falling off the edge. Elain gasps in surprise, nearly stumbling again, and catching herself by grasping Lucien’s waiting hand. But the figure is not one of her sisters, the speck dressed neither in deep black nor vibrant fire but midnight blue. As they fall, they’re enveloped in the thickest shadow and disappear.

“Briallyn.” Lucien says what they’re no doubt all thinking, lips twisted in distaste. “I guess that answers the question of whether Koschei has given her the means to winnow on her own”

Elain turns back towards her companions, eyes wide and hopeful. “But this must mean that my sisters are okay, doesn’t it?”

“Based on the indignity of the queen’s exit? It would be a fair assumption.”

As they’re getting closer and closer, more noise begins to filter to them, raised voices. But it’s the raised voices of her sisters and friends, and even their displeasure is lovely to hear because they’re alive to be displeased.

“But how could she control you?” and that’s Feyre, voice pitched with confusion.

“Not easily.” comes Rhys’ answer, exhausted and hoarse. “I tried to fight it off, tried to keep myself from hurting you but… she’s still here. She’s still here.”

Elain pushes herself to take those final steps to the top. Rhys is there, sitting up in Feyre’s embrace. Cassian is pacing about like a trapped animal and Nesta is staring at them all, coolly as if waiting for someone to provide an actual answer. When she notices their group arrive, some of the tension ebbs from Nesta’s frame.

“Is everyone okay?” Elain asks, drawing attention to herself. Nesta gives her a small nod.

Rhys tries to rise, but falls back, gritting his teeth. Feyre watches every movement like a hawk.

“Listen to me,” Rhys says. “you need to get the Harp. You need to get the Harp and put it somewhere safe. Safe from me.”

“The Harp?” Nesta asks at the same time as Feyre asks “From you?”

“Yes.” Rhys replies, to both of them, eyes seeking Helion, before turning back to Feyre. “She’s gone and her control is slipping but her orders ring in my ear. You need to get the Harp and then, Feyre darling, you and Nesta need to stay away from me.”

“No.” Feyre says stubbornly. “I won’t leave you. You can fight this off.”

“I can’t take that chance, Feyre.”

Nesta looks towards Cassian, wary, seizing up a risk, ready to spring at the first sight of violence. “And you?”

Rhys shakes his head firmly, finally standing. “No. He was under my control, not the Crown’s. Cassian will be fine.”

”Briallyn also ordered you to subdue him.” Nesta mercilessly points out. “Get the Crown, subdue him, and kill us.”

A muscle jumps in Cassian’s jaw. “I’m not leaving.”

“We can argue about this all night,” Lucien cuts in, tense as well “but if you want to put the Harp somewhere safe, we have to do it now. Koschei knows we’re investigating him. He knows we know his box is at the lake.”

Feyre blinks. “We know that? Since when?”

But Nesta, oh Nesta looks suspicious. She turns straight towards Elain, a storm gathering behind her gaze. “How do we know any of that?”

Elain wets her lips. “I scried.”

“I told you that it sends up a fucking flare and you – ! ”

“If I didn’t,” Elain cuts in, eyes flashing defiantly “we wouldn’t have found out about the Harp either. We wouldn’t have got here in time and Koschei would have been free come daylight!” Nesta deflates, the fight leaving her. Elain sighs, and continues in a gentler tone. “It was risky, you are right. I had no way of knowing the gamble would pay off. But let’s not fight about this, not now.”

“Okay.” Nesta allows, sullen but not unreasonable. “Fine.”

With the temporary ceasefire declared, Helion steps closer, taking the stage. “If we’re done with that dramatic interlude,” he looks to Rhys “I’ll help you dismantle the wards. It will make the work go faster.”

“Thank you, old friend.”

“This might take a while. If you wish to get comfortable…”

“No.” Nesta says, still fixated on Rhys and Cassian, doubting their state of mind. “No, we’re staying.”

“Suit yourselves.”

With that, Helion saunters past them, right to the gates. Rhys gives one last kiss to Feyre, who clutches his arm like she thinks he might be spirited away from her if she ever lets go. He murmurs something to her, something soft and Feyre swallows, letting him step away. Her fingers flex, trying to wrap around a ghost of memory even so.

Nesta looks rattled too, but it hardens her, makes her sharper, until she can figure out who her enemy is right now. She resolutely does not look back at Cassian who occasionally stares at her with a wounded expression. Elain wonders what happened there.

Left to deal with the aftermath, she realizes doesn’t know which of her sisters to go to. Indecision makes her stay stock still, right until Lucien walks past her, brushing her lower back as he does so. He stops in an even way between all parties and asks someone to fill him in on everything that happened. Feyre, clearly grateful for the distraction, begins to tell him everything, which is admittedly not that much.

Decision made, Elain walks to stand beside Nesta, and asks, quietly. “How was the ball?”

Nesta frowns at her, disbelieving. “Are you seriously asking if I had fun?”

“You look like your head is in the clouds, but the bad kind. I hoped I could coax back the sunshine.”

Nesta studies her for a moment, before sighing. “It wasn’t terrible.”

Elain smiles and nudges her. “Did you dance with someone?”

“I danced with several people.”

“Did you dance with someone special?”

“What are you – ” Nesta scoffs and looks away, but Elain sees the faintest blush on her cheeks. “That is not the point.”

“No. The point is you being happy. I hope you are.” then Elain trails off, gaze snagging on Feyre again. She bites her lip. “Do you think she’s going to be okay?”

“Feyre?” Nesta considers her, the unusual nervousness radiating off her. “She’s lost Rhysand before, and I don’t think she likes being reminded of it. She’ll be okay, once the shock wears off. She’s too stubborn not to be.”

“Should we talk to her?”

“Yes, because she would love that.” Nesta’s reply is sarcastic, but Elain grabs her arm immediately anyway, utterly ignoring that. Faced with her pleading pout, Nesta caves, though not without making it clear she’s not happy. “Fine.”

As they approach, they hear Feyre clear her throat. Lucien has his arms crossed, though he doesn’t seem displeased, but rather intent on making his friend squirm as much as he can. “I had a lot on my mind. I didn’t intend to leave Tamlin behind. In any case, he’s a grown adult by at least several centuries, he is more than capable of getting home alone.”

“You forgot to let us know we should meet up with him.”

“I didn’t - oh fine. Laugh it up, asshole.” she grumbles in the face of Lucien’s blooming grin. Elain can tell when Feyre notices them, because she tenses back up.

“Are you okay?” Elain asks carefully.

Feyre lets out a breath of bone-deep tiredness and says. “Yes, of course.”

Elain doesn’t let that deter her. True, Feyre looks like she’s already exhausted by the oncoming conversation, but she was grateful for Lucien’s distraction. Elain is the champion of distractions. But before she can do what she is best at, Nesta beats her to it:

“Elain was curious about the ball.” her sister says, voice easy and nonchalant as if this was any normal, usual conversation. “I told her she should ask you.”

“I… oh, well… okay?”

Even thrown as she is by the sudden request, Feyre does begin haltingly recounting her experiences. As she does so, Elain flashes Nesta a grateful smile and is warmed immensely to find her sister returning it.

Chapter Text

In the end, Nesta should have expected this. That as fast as Rhysand and Helion worked when in tandem, it wasn’t fast enough that they’d finish before Cassian gathered his nerve to approach her. He marches up to their little group, right as Elain finishes explaining the lot of it about her vision and says, gruffly, but clearly making an attempt to be polite:

“Could we talk, Nes? Alone?”

Nesta is about to flat out refuse, when Feyre nods furiously and all but shoves her forward. “Yes, you can.”

“Feyre.” Nesta hisses, but Feyre meets her stubborn stare with her own.

“This will do you some good.”

“Like hell it will.”

Elain looks between the two of them, considering the stalemate. She flashes Feyre a dirty look that slides right off her face as she turns towards Nesta, head tilted in a question. “Say the word and I’ll rescue you.”

“I’m still right here.” Cassian interjects, his grin unconvincing. He looks nervous and… annoyed which doesn’t bode well for whatever discussion he is itching to have. Neither does the fact that Nesta can’t be sure that he is no longer under Rhys’ and by extension Briallyn’s thumb.

“Fine.” Nesta concedes eventually. “But the moment I say so, this conversation is over.”

“Fine.” Cassian echoes, just as unhappy.

Elain narrows her eyes and strides past them. She gestures to a particularly dense moss patch far enough away that it gives the illusion of privacy, but close enough that they could reach them if something went awry. “There. That’s the farthest you can go. I promise I won’t eavesdrop but you will not leave line of sight.”

Lucien smiles at the fierce expression on Elain’s face, a besotted little smile that is nauseating to witness. Cassian, while disgruntled about it, clearly isn’t thickheaded enough to argue against such precaution. He agrees and then sullenly walks away. Nesta follows after him, barely resisting the urge to hug her chest protectively.

She isn’t scared of Cassian, not really. She is scared of the things Cassian makes her feel though. That… sinister longing in her chest, that yearning for him to see her, to want her and the burning hot anger at being disappointed: both by herself for feeling this way and by him for letting her down each time.

“Talk then.” she says curtly, stopping exactly at the borderline of their designated moss patch, refusing to take even a step further.

“Is there something going on between you and Eris?”

Nesta stops. Her brain fully freezes and needs a moment to restart. The words, when she pushes them past her lips are cracked with disbelief. “That’s what you’re concerned about?” then the question sinks in fully and the appropriate level of annoyance flares up. “This is what was so urgent to discuss? Who I’m sleeping with?”

“You’re fucking him?” Cassian’s nostrils flare, despite his best attempts to rein in his temper. “What the fuck Nesta. I thought you were smarter than this.”

Nesta wants to punch him. Right in the throat. “This conversation is done.”

She moves to walk away, but Cassian is faster, going around her to block her path. His grin is an ugly thing, full of condescension disguised as concern. “You should consider listening to me sweetheart. Did you already forget what happened with Mor?”

“You mean what Keir did to Mor.” Nesta spits out hotly. “Or did you already to forget who inflicted those wounds? And besides,” she ploughs ahead, anger boiling over at even having this conversation in the first place. “what business do you have, prying into my love life? What gives you any fucking right Cassian?”

“Because I’m your mate!”

In the wake of Cassian’s bellowing declaration the world goes silent. Or maybe it’s just Nesta’s ears that are ringing dully. Her stomach hollows out, her vision swims and there’s only one thought that echoes in her head.

“No.” she says with surety. Because that can’t be. It won’t be.

Cassian looks unsettled too, as if he hadn’t meant to say it, or hadn’t meant to shout it. Or maybe, the uncharitable part of Nesta muses, because I’ve gone pale as sheet as the mere prospect.

Sound is starting to come back. Boots on the rocks. Then a touch, grounding, firm. And a voice, usually so delicate, but now so very cold. “Leave.”

“But…”

“When she says the conversation is over, it’s over, remember?” Elain reminds Cassian, face twisted up in something akin to a dog snarling. “She said it’s over and you yelled at her.”

“I didn’t mean to… Nes. I didn’t mean to yell, I’m sorry.” Cassian tries, searching her eyes. Then he spots Lucien coming over, and tries to mutely plead with him instead.

Lucien only gives him a grave look. “Is it true?”

Elain hisses at Lucien in disapproval. Nesta hears it all, but feels out of place in her body. She doesn’t need to hear Cassian say yes to know it is true. She would almost laugh, if it didn’t make her feel quite so pathetic. Feyre’s insistence on the conversation, her unhappiness when she and Cassian fell apart… And that tug, that everpresent awareness of him…

“I don’t want it.” Nesta says, sounding as small and miserable as she feels. “I don’t want it.”

“Well, I didn’t ask to be shackled to you either.”

“Cass, don’t you see she’s still shocked?” comes the reprimand from Feyre of all people. Her tone is firm, but her expression is soft, apologetic; caught between the need to protect her sister and to reassure her friend. “Cauldron knows I needed some time after I found out too.”

Lucien moves past them, towards Cassian. He doesn’t look hostile, not exactly, but there’s something strict about him. Authoritative. “Let’s walk. You need to gather your thoughts and Nesta should too.”

He doesn’t wait for an argument or agreement, just strides past Cassian expecting to be followed. Cassian casts one last look at Nesta so conflicted, torn between anger and remorse, then he stomps after Lucien.

The moment he turns his back, Nesta feels like she can breathe again.

Elain starts to draw soothing circles on her back, her big doe eyes wide and innocent, the lines of anger smoothed into concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Nesta.”

Nesta sighs, her whole body shuddering with it. What can she say to this? She’s never wanted a bond. She’s certainly never wanted a bond with Cassian. She doesn’t love him, not enough to pledge herself to him in such an intimate and permanent way. But she also doesn’t hate him enough to shatter the greatest dream of his people without an ounce of remorse.

Elain takes her silence as a confession enough. “Lucien was ready to never speak on it again.” she glances at Feyre. “And Rhys would have let Feyre marry Tamlin too, if she wished it. If Cassian is half the male they are, he will give you space to make your choice too.”

“The bond isn’t such a curse, Nesta.” Feyre tries, carefully. From the corner of her eye, Nesta sees Elain’s eyes flash in a warning. In the face of it, Feyre backtracks. “Elain is right. Cassian is upset, but he cares about you so much. He’ll cool down and you can settle this. Whenever you’re ready.”

Nesta nods mutely to them, tired, spent and unwilling to discuss this any more than necessary. She only hopes Rhysand and Helion will be ready soon, because she needs to focus on something other than this.

Despite their disagreement over the topic Feyre and Elain are both with their mates. It feels inevitable, fate tying a string across her ribs and suffocating the air out of her lungs.

Maybe she’ll kick, maybe she’ll scream, and maybe she’ll still be worn down in the fight. Maybe, one day, she’ll walk into that dreadful House of Wind willingly and let herself be embraced by Cassian, and they’ll laugh at her stubbornness.

How dreary, the snide remark slips unbidden in her mind in a tone of voice that reminds her suspiciously much of Eris. She nearly laughs. Nothing is funny at all about the situation, but it’s terrible enough that it loops back into being just hysterical.

Through the tightness of her chest, Nesta breathes. She went under the burning cold waters of the Cauldron and carved out its heart. Its word isn’t law, its magic has no power over her. She is Nesta Archeron and she defies fate.

Though some of the color returns to her cheeks, Nesta is still sullen and silent by the time Helion tells them the wards are gone, and Elain is worried. She sticks close to her sister at all times, hovering like a persistent shadow. If Nesta minds, she doesn’t say, not even to argue against Elain walking on her heels into the Prison itself.

Helion stays outside, just in case Rhys, well, tries anything with the wards. He seemed better, Elain reckons, a little exhausted, but not as haunted as when they’ve arrived, and she hopes that means Briallyn’s grip is loosening.

Elain and Nesta lead the group, Lucien, Feyre behind them and Cassian guarding their backs. There is no time for any conflict anymore, not as they enter the dark, gloomy hallway of the Prison. The whispers start soon after, sometimes from far off, sometimes eerily close by. There are nails scraping walls, the echo of laughter and jeering voices.

“We know you’re here, we know you’re here.” a hoarse voice rasps out and then descends into a cackle.

From the distance, Elain hears bars rattle, followed by an inhuman scream. She swallows and grabs Nesta’s arm in support, fear coming over her. Nesta doesn’t shake her off.

They go down, down, into this wretched place, Elain guided by memory as much as she is by that faint pull on her being, like calling to like, the Harp singing to her softly through the rock. She stops abruptly when she finds the right spot, across the stone in an alcove. She traces her hand on the rock and is startled when it falls clean through. “It’s here.”

“Here?” Cassian echoes, staring at the iron door next to them with a worried look. “Are you sure?”

“We are.” Nesta replies instead of her and, rather than facing Cassian, walks into the rock. Elain stares helplessly and then calls out:

“Nesta?”

“I’m alright. There are wards inside, ancient and powerful. I can feel them slipping off me… they want me here. They might not want the rest of you.”

“Play with me, play with me,” the voice of the Harp starts crooning again, “free me sweet sister and we shall make such lovely music together.”

“Nesta,” Elain says, haltingly “do you hear the singing too?”

“No.” Nesta replies, suddenly alert. “I… can’t move. It won’t let me move!”

Elain’s eyes widen and she rushes inside without a second thought, heedless of the cries that urge her to wait. The cool magic of the barrier that Nesta has described washes over her, poking, prodding and deciding to let her in. The cavern is decorated with the same constellations she has seen before, and in the center of it, Nesta stands, frozen in place, the most beautiful Harp in her rigid grasp.

“Death-touched girl,” the Harp says, without saying anything out loud “she has seen another of us, I can hear it in her melody. Oh, what secrets it must have whispered to her. What secrets I could tell you, you who can see the unseen. We could do so much together. The small strings are for games—light movement and leaping—but the longer, the final ones … Such deep wonders and horrors we could strum into being. Such great and monstrous magic I wrought with my last minstrel. Shall I show you?”

Elain studies the Harp and walks closer. “Yes. You shall. But release my sister first.”

“Pluck the first string then, if you wish to open a door and release that which is caught.”

“No.” Elain replies, shaking her head. “You’ve trapped her without need for music, so you shouldn’t need one to let her go. Please, kindly do so.”

The Harp laughs, a tinkling noise. “Why? I had none to play with for millennia. Lives are as amusing to pluck as notes.”

“Because you could use her,” Elain points out “but you want me. And you shan’t have me, if you trap her. I intend to free you, to play with you. Isn’t that worth postponing your mischief?”

“You sing true, sister. Very well then.” it agrees and Nesta is set free with a lurch. “But you must hold me, play me, play me.”

“Alright.” Elain glances at Nesta. “The Harp please.”

“No.” Nesta replies, moving to leave the room the moment she regains control over her limbs. “Not until we’re out of here.”

She passes through the wall and only then, once they’re in the corridor, does she surrender the Harp. Elain takes it, and feels it warm under her fingertips, delighted and eager. The others watch them with wary expressions, Lucien’s gaze lingering on the Harp.

“Is it supposed to glow like that?” he asks, shrewd. Elain winces.

“Probably not.”

Nesta looks between the two of them then says: “I know the lure of the Trove, Elain. If it’s interested in you, you better be careful.”

“Agreed.” Lucien says. “We should take it back home. If Helion’s wards hold, even Rhys can’t get to it there.”

Elain turns to Feyre, eyes wide and pleading. “You should come with us in the meantime. Help us plan our next move.”

“You mean, I should stay away from Rhys.” Feyre corrects flatly. Nesta crosses her arms over her chest.

“Yes. You should.”

“It’s his wish.” Elain interjects, apologetically. “And Helion can keep an eye on him while they redo the wards besides. He won’t be alone.” Feyre only sighs. If she truly wanted to fight them, they could never change her mind. But it seems she has surrendered even before they entered the Prison.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll stay. For now.”

When they return to the manor - pausing only to let Feyre and Cassian in - they find Jurian and Vassa on the sofa, expressions tense, frozen in the afterimage of an argument. Jurian’s expression clears the slightest at the sight of them but something clouds in his eyes once more as he beholds the Harp.

“Success, then?” he asks, but the quality of his voice is still… beyond exhausted. Nesta doesn’t like it one bit.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, cutting to the chase. Jurian looks to Vassa. Vassa scowls.

“Jurian is being overdramatic.”

“You fainted.” Jurian points out. “People don’t faint for no reason.”

“It’s been an hour! I’ve been perfectly conscious and lucid since!”

“Oh and were you moved when I said the hellhound scratch was nothing?”

Vassa’s face heats up. “That’s… different.”

“How?” Jurian asks, leaning in a tad bit closer. Vassa’s scowl deepens, unable to find any sensible argument.

“It just is.”

“I thought so.”

They all turn expectantly towards Lucien, the resident expert on Jurian and Vassa’s spats. He notices the eyes on him and smiles in a way that promises vengeance at the next opportune moment.

“Let’s hope it was a one-off thing.” Lucien remarks idly, sidestepping having to take either of his friends’ side. “And, yes we have the Harp and we know where Koschei’s box is too.” he shrugs. “Well, roughly.”

Now Jurian seems to perk up. “You know where the box is?”

There’s a soft noise across the room, like chimes twinkling, and Elain’s brows furrow. The Harp is talking to her, Nesta realizes, disturbed by the idea. Elain nods, her spirits returning.

“It's in the lake. I’ve seen where it is, and the Harp can take us right to it.”

“It can?” Feyre asks, dubious. “Amren said it could open doors, not travel.”

There’s a pause. Then Elain responds: “It says, ‘what is travel but walking through doors?’. It could help us.”

“Is it wise to bring the one thing Koschei wants right to him?” Lucien points out, doubtful. Jurian scoffs.

“The box is in the lake. Even if we could fetch someone who can breathe underwater it would still take us too much time to comb the entire lakebed. We’d be easy pickings for Koschei. If that Harp can take us right to it and then back – I think it’s still the safest option.”

Lucien studies him, frowns, but says nothing.

“Yes.” Elain agrees, her voice distant, distracted. “Exactly. Koschei wants the Harp, but it can take me away, if he’d get too close. I’ll just pluck the right string.”

Elain’s fingers twitch over the curve of the Harp. She still hasn’t parted from it and Nesta does not like it one bit.

“Elain.” Nesta says. It takes a distinctly long time for Elain to turn towards her. “Put down the Harp.”

Elain starts as if she didn’t realize she still had it in her hand and gingerly, as if it was fragile, places it atop the table. Nesta eyes the artefact suspiciously, only letting herself relax once Elain returns to her side and doesn’t glance back towards that cursed thing.

“I will go with you.” Nesta says, tone brooking no argument. “You'll need someone who can wield Narben in case something goes wrong.”

“You’ll need all the help you can get.” Jurian butts in. “I’ll go too.”

“As will I.” Lucien agrees.

“Me too.” Cassian says jerkily and Nesta fights the damned urge to look at him. She’s done her very best to acknowledge Cassian’s presence as little as she can ever since they’ve left the Prison. “Az will too.”

Feyre looks stricken and damn near sheepish. “I… I can’t go. Not with the baby and…” she trails off. “Other things.”

Nesta doesn’t like the sound of that ‘other things’ either, but before she can press further, another voice pipes in. “I’ll go too.”

If Jurian looked sour this evening, now he blanches further. “Vassa, no.”

Vassa glares at him. “We still have hours before the sun rises and no one knows that lake better than I. You need me.”

“No, we don’t. We won’t linger for a tour. Quick in and out. That’s all.”

Vassa’s expression falls. The mask of steel cracks, showing the desperate vulnerability underneath. “Jurian please.” she says, begs as a queen should never have to. “I’m fairly tolerable with a bow. I won’t be a liability. You may not need me, but I need to be there. Please don’t ask me to stay behind.”

Jurian looks like he wants to argue, wants to shout in protest, to scream in vain but swallows it back down. Vassa sags in relief, but when she reaches out to take Jurian’s hand in gratitude he flinches, as if burnt, before he allows the touch and the pain it brings.

Nesta looks over at the gathered crowd. Her, her sisters, her sister’s mate and their friends, Cassian, and Azriel if Helion is successful in making sure Rhys doesn’t lose his mind in the meantime. All that could be spared on such short notice. She hopes it will be enough.

Elain is lost in thought, her fingers plucking a chord that isn’t there, and Nesta realizes with a sinking feeling that for all Elain’s foresight, even she doesn’t have the answer if they’ll fail or prevail tonight.

Chapter Text

Elain rifles through her closet with single-minded determination and plucks the dress she bought from Day, the one with the pants and the overskirt with a triumphant “aha!”. She puts it on quickly, ties her hair in a practical bun and fastens the flower bracelet back around her wrist, having asked Vassa to refill it with the sleeping powder. She looks into her mirror, patting down her skirt twice, anxiety thrumming through her body. Her reflection doesn’t look like a fearsome or regal warrior: there’s only Elain. But that has to be enough.

She picks up the bottomless bag, slings it over her shoulder and walks out into the hall. Passing by, she hears Jurian chastising Nesta over her sloppy swordwork, and Feyre conversing in hushed tones with Cassian and the recently arrived Azriel.

She doesn’t stop, heading straight for what she lovingly dubbed her potions workshop, a room in the west wing where Jurian and her conduct all their experiments. It’s also where she stores the precious few healing potions Lucien and her were able to brew with their dwindling supplies. She opens the bag and packs five out of the nine remaining potions, doing it as slowly as she can, laboring under the false impression that keeping her hands busy will stop her mind from drifting.

It doesn’t. She tried to reach for a vision, but reading the future is so much trickier than reading the past or the present and even if she blocks out all other distractions the Harp cuts clean through the din, its laughter like wood chimes on the wind.

Elain closes her bag and stays there, staring off into space. Then she turns on her heels and leaves, her feet taking her before Lucien’s room. She raises her hand to knock, but her knuckles barely touch the wood before Lucien calls out for her to enter.

He’s wearing light, rich brown leather armor, looking so much like some of the human mercenaries passing through the market that Elain nearly does a double take.

Paradoxically, it’s him who says, lips quirking in a smile: “Don’t you look battle-ready.”

Elain feels her lips curl up at the compliment and ducks her head a little, taking the moment to properly look around the room. Something is off about it, the way his weapons are arranged on the walls, the singular bookshelf above the bed, the orange blankets, but clear white pillows, mementos and gifts peeking out from a box near the foot of the bed with the lid half fallen off. It’s tidy and it’s clearly lived in but… it reminds her of Nesta’s room, back when they moved into the estate Tamlin had given them. Not moving in fully, but bits and pieces emerging each day, still unconvinced that the soil was stable enough to take down roots in. (this time around, she hasn’t brought enough with her to matter)

Elain’s eyes land on the dagger, laid out on the table, the last piece missing from Lucien’s ensemble. She picks it up, gingerly, mindful of the sharp edges. The weight of it is familiar; she recalls holding up Truth-Teller and ramming it through the throat of the King of Hybern. Her reflection is unchanged, even in this different mirror. She is still Elain. She will do what she must, to keep the people she loves safe.

“May I?” Elain asks, holding the blade between them. Lucien’s grin widens as he pats down his thigh, where the empty holster sits. As if Elain missed that before she offered.

“Inadvisable.” he quips, but makes no move to stop her when she does slip the dagger where it belongs, making a valiant effort not to brush against him, even through a layer of cloth, and is greatly pleased with herself for her success. Lucien’s eyes narrow, even as the smile on his face stays unchanged. “Jurian can be a liar, I grant you that, but I thought human women traditionally gave their favor to knights before a battle, rather than barge in on them in their bedchamber to torment them.”

Elain smiles sweetly. “And how have I tormented you?”

“You know that precisely well, my lady. You have rather made a sport of it tonight.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

Lucien cups her cheek and gently angles her head towards him. “Liar.” he mumbles fondly, his breath puffing against her lips. Elain’s eyelids flutter closed and she leans in – only to be met with cold air, and the sensation of Lucien’s fingers slipping from her face. She opens her eyes to find the dreadful male proceeding to tie his hair in a ponytail as if nothing happened.

Elain huffs out a laugh. “Is this payback for kissing you in front of Helion?”

“Is this an admission that that move was underhanded?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then perhaps.”

Elain’s smile widens, accepting that turnabout is indeed fair play. Lucien fixes his hair and, much like Elain had with the potions, stays standing for a long moment, staring at nothing in particular. Elain moves to stand beside him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before laying her head on top of it.

“What’s troubling you?” she murmurs. Broadly, she knows. But she’ll always offer an ear, if Lucien needs it. He’s shouldering enough of their burdens anyway.

“I keep thinking about your vision.” Lucien admits, the joviality of moments ago gone. “You falling into the box, being ripped apart…” he shakes his head, a motion Elain feels rather than sees. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, alright?”

It’s not like Elain has forgotten the vision haunting her waking hours turned more horrible by her sleeping mind, its horror dulled by frequency until she no longer woke up sobbing but only panting and shivering. But using her magic so often seems to have soothed it, enough that she hasn’t had that particular nightmare since coming here and it made it so much easier to keep it out of sight, out of mind.

She could tell Lucien that maybe, this isn’t purely a side-effect of practicing with her Sight, that maybe it means that coming here irrevocably changed something, because it could be true. She could distract him, admit that it feels nice that he takes her seriously, that he remembers her visions at all, because it does. But that would be just one more smiling mask she hid behind, one more ugly fear she laughingly danced away from, feigning obliviousness.

“I promise.” she says, an admission and a reassurance, and hopes the future won’t prove her a liar too.

Nesta runs through another one of Jurian’s drills, her arms starting to ache, but pushing through nevertheless. They don’t have much time before they’ll need to leave so Nesta swiftly changed into her newly acquired pants – glared at the Night Court residents to make sure they kept any unwelcome comments to themselves – and threw herself right into practicing.

“If the fates deign to be kind to us,” Jurian murmurs, pointedly glancing at Nesta’s feet and she shuffles to correct her stance “you won’t even have to lift this sword.”

“Because they’ve been kind to us so far?” Nesta retorts and Jurian gives her a smile that is so at odds with the terrible sadness in his gaze.

“Occasionally, they have been.” he says, then exhales deeply. “But I’m not holding out hope for tonight.”

Nesta frowns. As much as she wanted to be contrary, she somehow didn’t expect Jurian to agree with her so solemnly. She lowers the sword, her fingers twitching with the sudden urge to reach out in comfort. But the two of them are not like that. “I’m used to you being moody, but not moody and defeatist. That’s my role in this friendship.”

Jurian barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “Would it reassure you if I said something utterly out of pocket and inappropriate right now?”

Nesta arches an eyebrow. “Normally you’d just say it. If you need to buy time, you’re really losing your touch.” Elain returns just then, Harp held in a bruising grip, Lucien on her heels. She turns back to Jurian. “You have until we get home to figure out something.”

“I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.”

They all gather to leave and Feyre walks forward, wrapping her arms around both her sisters, telling them under no uncertain terms that they are to return in one piece. They move to hold each other’s hand, like a demented living chain and Nesta only has a few seconds to stew in its humiliation before Elain plucks a chord and something tugs at the very heart of her.

The air ripples and grows cooler in an instant. The ground under Nesta’s feet is slippery, slimy and the wind bites into her skin. There are weeping willows arching overhead, their leaves mottled and brown, their bark weathered and aged. The moon shines bright overhead, illuminating their surroundings just well enough that they can see, but not enough to dispel the long shadows around them. The lake is close by, in sight, but they didn’t dare land entirely next to it, not when they don’t know the bounds of Koschei’s curse. They have a clear vantage if Elain runs into trouble, but they shouldn’t tempt fate.

What Nesta notices with a sudden chill, is the lack of birds. There are no swans gliding across the lake, no cries that break the monotony of the wind’s howls. Just… nothing. Vassa’s grip on her bow tightens, and her face grows pale and Nesta knows without asking that there should be more life here than this.

“He isn’t here, not yet.” Vassa says. “The air is much colder when he’s near. I can’t explain it better. You’ll know.”

“We should be quick then.” Jurian says.

But then Nesta feels it, slithering in. It’s like when Rhysand crawls into her mind, except more potent. There is no overwhelming force to fight back against; it brushes against her mind and then it’s inside in the same breath. Her limbs are paralyzed on the single, reedy command of: “Stay put.” echoing in both her head and aloud.

Nesta can’t move her feet, can’t turn her head. From her periphery, she sees every member of their troupe freeze similarly. Elain does too in front of her, but in a different way. She stops, stock still, but not unnaturally, the Harp glinting in her hands. It shielded her, Nesta realizes in an instant. The Trove were never meant to be used against each other but in unison. If Elain can find the right time to spring, she can save them all.

Briallyn appears from the shadows. But even in victorious exaltation, the queen winces in pain from time to time and if Nesta could move a muscle she would smile savagely. Glad to know her parting gift lingered.

A branch snaps in the distance, but it doesn’t herald the arrival of a shadowy menace. Or at least. Not the one she expected.

“I’ve waited so long for this.” Briallyn croons, eyes fixed on Nesta in particular. “Now kill – ”

“Wait.” the figure says, in a voice entirely too familiar and too sweet to her. It’s Eris that emerges from the trees after Briallyn. Briallyn’s command hangs in the air, making Nesta’s fingers twitch on Narben’s hilt, like a thread that’s about to snap. But for now, Eris has a sway over the queen. “Koschei wants them alive.”

“Does he, heir of lies?” reluctant to tear her attention from her helpless prey, she glances over her shoulder fleetingly, her wrinkled brow pinched in consideration. “I expected your father.”

Eris walks closer, smirking. “He was indisposed.”

Eris doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t look at her, even if Nesta wishes he would. This is a trick, she knows, just a trick. She trusts him, even if it’s not her trust that matters now, but Elain’s.

“Shall we summon our lord then, to settle the matter?” Briallyn asks, turning towards Eris, waiting for an answer.

In the moment of her distraction, a high note rings out and Elain disappears. Briallyn whirls around to find her and then gasps, loudly, wetly as a blade juts out of her chest. Blood trickles from her mouth as she roars with all the hate in her heart: “Traitor!”

The Crown glints in the dark and Eris’ hand goes limp on the handle. But the very next second, Elain reappears next to the queen and blows sparkling golden-brown dust in her face. Briallyn starts to hack and cough, her already weak body fighting to stay upright against the wound and the ash. Eris regains control for just a moment, but that moment is enough: the blade lights on fire, burning away Briallyn’s heart.

The crone screams one final time, before she falls to the ground with an unceremonious thud and a hole in her chest. Nesta’s feet get unstuck and she nearly falls on her face as her momentum hits her once more.

Elain stares at Eris and Briallyn’s gruesome corpse. She pouts. “I can’t believe I helped kill another person.”

Nesta laughs a little disbelievingly at her sister. Then her gaze, as all of theirs, goes to Eris who scoops up the Crown and throws it at Nesta. She catches it, though not as gracefully as she would have liked. Eris finally looks up and notes their stares. He sighs with displeasure.

“Yes, yes, you’re welcome. I hope you have a plan.”

Cassian looks sour but he keeps his mouth shut, looking anywhere but at Eris. It’s Nesta that asks: “What are you doing here?”

“After I had a lovely chat with Tristan - and do remind me to get back to this once we get the hell out of here - I happened across Father having his very own private discussion with a shadowy projection of Koschei. Koschei summoned him to the lake, raving on and on about ending things once and for all.” he answers, carelessly gesturing with his hands. “Given the ominous nature of that message and your hasty exit, I thought it best if he doesn’t make it.”

Nesta’s mouth parts softly in shock. If he opposed his father openly about Koschei, if he in any way revealed his true allegiances…“Eris. What did you do?”

“Father tragically took a misstep on his own cursed tiles and is currently enjoying the view in the dungeons. So I killed myself, unless you come up with something brilliant in the next oh, approximately ten to fifteen minutes.”

Elain starts at that in an instant, nodding furiously. “Right. Wish me luck!” she says, handing Nesta her bag, looking briefly towards Lucien like she physically couldn’t leave without seeing his face, and then she plucks a chord on the Harp, vanishing into thin air.

Nesta wants to grill Eris some more, berate him for his stupidity too, and one look at Lucien’s expression tells her she isn’t alone with that urge. But the air suddenly grows thick with the sound of birds screaming, a noise that cuts off as abruptly as it came. The quiet doesn’t last, screams replaced by snarls instead, silvery eyes flashing in the dark, closing in on them. The hellhounds are coming.

“Did you know about this?” Lucien asks, voice surprisingly sarcastic for the doom about to descend upon them. Eris flashes him a humourless smile.

“I didn’t but, I mean it is a bit predictable. Unimaginative even.”

“A fair point.”

Cassian and Azriel square up, drawing their weapons. “Less talking,” Cassian says curtly, “more killing.”

Nesta hastily shoves the Crown inside the bag to keep it safe. She summons a flame to her hand and nods towards Eris, who does the same. They’re ready.

The water is unbelievably cold. Elain nearly screams at impact, letting go of all the precious air in her lungs. Her freezing fingers tighten on the Harp and her eyes strain against the darkness to locate the box. Come on, come on, she thinks, well-aware how precious little time she has left. She begins to paw on the ground and touches something frigid; the worst thing is that that something touches her back. Elain, alarmed, tries to pull herself away, but the thing holds fast. As the Harp’s glow illuminates it, Elain can see something pearly white clasp around her wrist, and with a lurching stomach, she realizes it’s a skeletal hand.

“Play me, play me.” the Harp croons sweetly and Elain does, a small string, and leaps to the bank. She has torn off the hand in her travel, and it clatters to the mud at her feet. She takes two heaving breaths, hears the snarls of hellhounds and thinks: Right. Again.

She plucks the Harp again and goes back, now more prepared for the cold, for the darkness. She frantically claws through the lakebed, kicking uselessly as hands grab her, but not letting it distract her from the task at hand. A hand runs over her spine, a skeleton grabbing onto her, trying to pull her down, when Elain’s wandering fingers knock against something smooth, something even more frigid and ancient than these waters.

Help me… she hears, a faint whisper, not of the Harp, but she doesn’t have time to muse on such things now so she plucks a note instantly, to transport her away. She lands at Lucien’s feet, who kicks away the corpse still clinging to her before she can even register what’s happening.

He pulls her to her feet and uses his other hand to slice at the face of a hellhound. “She has it!”

They’re surrounded by monsters all around, Elain realizes quickly. The willows are on fire, a distinct silvery fire mingled with golden, several hellhounds writhing on the ground. Their group is no longer packed closely together but scattered, driven apart by the relentless efforts of the hellhounds.

“Nesta, Narben!” Jurian shouts, but Nesta pays him no mind.

“Go home Elain! We’ll be right behind you!”

Elain hesitates for a single second before she plucks the right chord. She disappears, only to reappear on the edge of the lake instead of the manor. Elain tries again and again, but she only pops in and out of the battlefield.

“It’s better to stay.” the Harp insists charmingly. “What if they can’t follow, if they get hurt? You already have the box and the means of its destruction.”

Her hands pause above the strings. That… that’s… Her thoughts are muddied with fear, but even so… The Harp may have a point. Why did she… why did she even want to leave in the first place? She can barely remember.

“The Harp’s keeping her here!” Jurian bellows, skewering a hellhound that got the stupid notion it could sneak up on Vassa. The air grows colder suddenly, making gooseflesh ripple across Elain’s skin. The others notice it too. A panicked note creeps into Jurian’s voice. “We need to end this! Nesta, use Narben, now!”

Nesta’s eyes flash as she erupts magic, completely unmaking the closest hounds. She whirls around in the momentary peace. Elain plucks the Harp again, appearing at her side and dropping the box to the ground. Nesta’s mighty blow connects, but it does nothing. There’s a flash, the sound of metal meeting metal, as if Narben was an ordinary sword not one of legends.

Blue explodes around them, Azriel jumping – flying on mighty wings and the arrow-riddled hound that would have pounced on the sisters is instead repelled by his shield. “I won’t be able to hold out long if the death-god wants through.”

“Get them out of here!” Lucien barks, using one hand to slash at the hellhounds and the other wielding flame, fighting back to back with Eris. Vassa shoots down a hound that snaps at Cassian, the arrow going clean through its skull and Cassian kicks the creature, to put some distance between them.

But Elain doesn’t really notice any of that.

Help me... she hears again, that faint whisper. She bends down, inspecting the box, the rush of battle going quiet around her, drowned by chimes. “Yes, yes, open it, open it! You need no music for that lock!”

The box is so cold, so cold, her fingers are nearly stuck to it. If they can’t destroy the box, maybe they just need to open it, destroy its contents. Yes. Elain wedges a thumb under the lid in a daze before she snaps out of it: it comes back to her in a rush, her visions, her promise to Lucien. She stops, heart hammering over what almost happened. What the Harp almost made her do.

“Spoilsport.” the Harp bites out, laughter giving way to sneering menace. “Oh well. I’m the key to every lock.”

To her horror the box opens anyway. Something viscous and black slinks out of it, taking hold of her. Her first and last instinct is to call out for Lucien, her mouth forming the first syllable of his name before sound is wrenched from her and she’s falling and falling and falling.

Teeth sink into her flesh and she’s just gone.

“Get them out of here.” it echoes in Nesta’s mind and she’s too busy scanning the battlefield to figure out how quickly the hounds would get to them once Azriel’s shield collapses, whether or not she can act quick enough to cover for them while he gets Elain and the box out. It’s a momentary distraction, not one that anyone could fault her for.

She thought Elain was safe. Elain was supposed to be safe, here beneath the azure light of Azriel’s Siphons.

The blood freezes in her veins when she hears Elain’s cut-off cry for help and she spins around too late. The box opens and something terrible and black oozes from it, running up Elain’s body from her fingers to her toes at breakneck speed and she’s gone between one heartbeat and the next. The box closes with finality and falls to the ground. The Harp gleams even in the mud. Nesta stares ahead but the world seems hazy, blurry. The shield wobbles, Azriel’s concentration faltering, and Lucien, Lucien screams a sound of pure anguish and he would have fallen to his knees if Eris wasn’t around to yank his body back, out of harm’s way.

The world grows blurrier by the moment. Tears, Nesta thinks, sound and thought slowly returning to her. The world blurs because she is crying.

What the fuck happened? How could everything have gone to hell in the precious few seconds she wasn’t looking?

The monsters stop their assault, hellhounds retreating, some sitting back on their haunches altogether.

Azriel lowers his shield at the sight of Lucien sprinting towards them. Lucien picks up the box and gathers it to his chest, like he could embrace and protect Elain that way. Jurian watches the scene and meets Nesta eyes for a single moment – there’s nothing there but grief, regret. The shadows lengthen and Eris curses, running to close the distance but they’re out of time.

Nesta, trembling, furious, shouts and readies a bolt of fire, launching it at Koschei the moment the creature, like a predator tired of playing with his food, appears before them. The fire burns a hole through his wraith-like form and he screeches in pain – but even as black blood pours from it, the wound begins to slowly stitch itself back up before her eyes. It better fucking hurt, Nesta thinks viciously, grasping for the smallest of silver linings in the face of futility. She might not be able to kill him, but she’ll make sure he suffers until her last breath is drawn.

“My turn.” Koschei says lazily, black blood covering his sharp teeth. All of them use their powers to shield even before the explosion of death and shadow reaches them: the impact sends them all flying through the air. Nesta’s vision swims with more than tears this time. She hit her head against the bark of a tree, her lip split, tasting of copper where she bit down during the fall. She looks around, noting how each of them are sprawling at various distances from the other. Lucien is the closest to her, already grunting and rising to his feet. But then he stops, shock halting his movements.

And Nesta understands why. Her estimation was wrong. Not all of them were blasted away. Vassa and Jurian still stand in the heart of the circle of devastation, untouched and unharmed. Vassa is confused, clearly, but Jurian is not. He bends down, picks up the Harp and Nesta isn’t sure if it would answer him, not when it betrayed Elain so thoroughly, but she still wants to shout at him to leave.

The Harp sails through the air and lands in Koschei’s hands.

Koschei laughs as he plucks the Harp and a low, rumbling chord echoes around them. Shadows forming manacles appear over his wispy wrists only to dissolve like ash on the wind. Nesta knows she should stand back up, that she should fight but her body is paralyzed by disbelief, by terror.

Jurian, their friend, marches closer to Koschei. Vassa looks stricken, lips moving mutely in the shape of a no.

“We’ve had a bargain creature!” Jurian shouts. “Hold up your end!”

“With pleasure.” Koschei replies and Vassa cries out in pain. Her knees buckle and she drops her bow as she falls to the ground. She molts, feathers made of pure flame wrenched from her body and burning up into nothing.

Vassa raises her head with some effort, holding out a shaking hand towards Jurian who looks equally wrecked. “I love you more than anything in this world. And I’m sorry.” he says, and as soon as the words leave his lips he begins to heave, coughing up…

Feathers. Brown feathers.

“Jurian!” Vassa screams as Jurian’s body twists, joints cracking and breaking, his throat clogged up with feathers, cutting off any noise of pain. His limbs shorten, shrivel away, fingers bending into talons, feathers sprouting from his pores like weeds until there’s nothing left but a giant eagle with Jurian’s sorrow reflected in his yellowed irises. He lets out a mournful call, circling around Koschei before landing on his outstretched arm. Vassa’s whole body is shaking uncontrollably: in agony, in terror, or in heartbreak. Likely all three.

But Nesta, Nesta doesn’t feel anything but cold, numb. The denial, the fear, the hopelessness… This cannot be happening. None of this can be happening. Koschei tilts his head and studies the eagle, dutiful and unmoving and utterly under his thrall.

“Your despair is most amusing, and I must thank you for the entertainment.” the death-god tells them, with a smile. Something moves out in the field of Nesta’s vision. She ignores it. Nothing matters, not anymore. “But I fear this is where the fun ends.”

The hounds snarl, blood and saliva dripping from their jaws. Nesta watches them lounge with a detached sort of curiosity, but they don’t make it far. A dragon made of pure fire swoops down and circles around them protectively. The hellhounds howl and yelp in pain, slowed down just enough to keep them in check, for the time being. The movement she caught before was Cassian, running towards Vassa lying on the ground, trying to haul her to her feet and away from Koschei.

Nesta looks past them, towards Eris, to find he’s already looking at her. There’s a bead of perspiration rolling down his forehead as he urges his flames to grow hotter. Nesta can feel their scorching heat press uncomfortably against her skin. But it doesn’t matter. The fire, his fire, is being swallowed up by something black, rotten, Koschei peeling off the magic, inch by inch.

“Winnow!” Eris shouts, the tail of the fire drake swooping out to slap Koschei, whose body burns on impact only to start reforming in the same moment. The burns leave no mark - the wound Nesta dealt him, though smaller than it was, remains. “I can’t hold them forever!”

Azriel winnows to Cassian and the still weeping Vassa, who hasn’t torn her eyes from the eagle flying around to avoid the flames, and grabs both of them. Vassa struggles against the unrelenting grip of the two Illyrians but ultimately fails, the three of them disappearing from the lake.

Lucien grabs onto her arm too. Nesta barely notices the pressure, focused as she is on Eris.

“What are you doing?!” she cries and oh, she thought she was numb already, but panic still constricts her throat. She already knows, as much as she refuses to believe it.

“I’m already dead Nesta dear!” he argues, in a tense, morbidly sing-song tone, until he locks eyes with her frightened ones. Then everything about him softens with affection and immeasurable grief. He doesn’t think he’ll survive this, but he wants her to. There’s no bravado in that, no masks, just a sincere plea. He looks behind her, towards his little brother. “Please, both of you. Go.”

“No!”

She shouts, but the arms around her grow tighter and she can’t fight her way out of Lucien’s hold. The last thing she sees is the fire dragon infected with shadows, growing duller, weaker, until the world blurs and dissolves in a winnow.

Nesta doesn’t know where they are. The woods are unfamiliar, no doubt somewhere half-way between the lake and the manor. Nesta doesn’t care. She doesn’t need to know where she is to know where she wants to go.

This time when she fights off Lucien, he lets her go. She closes her eyes and tries to winnow. The world blurs and she appears, barely a step ahead of where she was. She tries again and again, frustration and panic mounting.

Elain is gone and Jurian is gone but Eris is still there he’s still fighting and she can’t just leave him behind she can’t –

She stumbles over a rock, but with a heaving breath she winnows again.

The lake. Take me to the damn lake!

Lucien keeps calling out her name but she ignores him.

She doesn’t stop, even though she’s dizzy now with the effort, her eyes stinging with tears. Lucien grabs her arm with one hand, restraining her. Nesta pushes against his chest, but once more, she is trapped.

“He’s your brother!” she screams, voice cracking, accusing. “He’s your brother and you left him behind!”

You made me leave him behind, she doesn’t say, but her heart cracks under the weight of it anyway.

“You can’t save him!” Lucien argues, his voice just as raw, raised. “Listen to me! You can’t save him!”

“Shut up, shut up! How can you… Do you even fucking care?”

”Gods damn it Nesta!” Lucien lets her go suddenly and Nesta takes a step backwards, staring down a fury that matches her own. “Do you think I wanted to do that? Do you think it was easy to abandon my best friend, to leave my own brother to die? You would have died, I would have died, Elain, the box the Crown, Narben, all of it Koschei’s. There was nothing I could do, but I’ll still have to live the rest of my life with the knowledge that I chose to walk away. Do you understand that Nesta? Can you wrap your head around how fucking terrible that is?”

Lucien curses loudly and paces like a caged animal, still clutching at the box like a lifeline. Nesta’s heart pounds at the sight of that cursed thing.

“You already hit Koschei and it did nothing.” Lucien says, with some measure of composure, his anger ebbing, revealing the truth of defeat. “Even if Eris is somehow still alive, you can’t save him. If you went back now, Koschei would just slaughter you where you stood. Eris wouldn’t want that.”

Nesta couldn’t save Elain, swallowed by that box, can’t save Jurian, shackled to Koschei, but Eris… she might have been able to save him, or at least die in the attempt. And even that is taken from her. She shudders with the force of her despair, the truth of Lucien’s words piercing through her like an arrow in the heart.

She can’t get back. There may be nothing to save, even if she did.

“Elain’s still alive.” Lucien says and Nesta’s head snaps back up. Hope is a treacherous thing and she feels terrible for how quickly it springs up amidst her grief.

“What?” she croaks.

Lucien sits down on the grassy ground, like he physically can’t support his body anymore. His fingers trace the grooves of strange symbols adorning the box absently. His voice is hoarse, his eyes vacant. “I wasn’t sure at first. The bond is so weak. But I didn’t feel it break. I would have felt it break.”

“But she’s trapped.” Nesta says, hating the sob that wants to claw up her throat “She’s still gone just like –”

“I know.” Lucien cuts her off, harshly. He closes his eyes against the pain. “But there’s still hope for her. Please, help me save her.”

Don’t throw your life away, he is saying. Here is where you can help.

Nesta stares at the sky, the clouds rolling in overhead to totally obscure the moon. It’s so terribly dark now, even if she knows that in a matter of hours, dawn will approach. “Where are we?” she asks weakly after a moment. It’s not a surrender, nor an apology. But it’s something.

“The woods outside the manor.” Lucien answers, voice blank and empty. “I expected that we’d need a moment.”

”Thank you, I guess.” she mumbles, gathering her strength just enough to force the words out with some sincerity. Lucien shrugs.

Nesta keeps her head tilted upwards, trying to blink back the tears that insist on falling, as the gravity of the situation sinks in more with each passing moment.

They freed the monster they’ve sought to defeat.

She’s lost her sister. She’s lost her friend. She’s lost her lover.

There’s nothing more to say. Not after that.