Chapter Text
Elain Archeron had spent too long in the dark. Ever since the never-ending emptiness of the cauldron she had been unceremoniously submerged in, the veil had never fully lifted. Especially not with those visions that still plagued her.
And for all her family’s encouragement to take control of her powers, it was very much the other way around.
She had not told Feyre this, nor Nesta, nor even Azriel when he had given her that knowing look as she stood in the halls of the River House. But the truth coiled inside her ribs like an overgrown vine - tangled, suffocating, aching to stretch toward the light.
The Night Court, for all its splendour, had become a gilded cage.
She loved her family, but much as it had been when they were young, whether in their large estate or the hovel they lived in after losing their fortune, as the middle sister, she was always overlooked. Too delicate to trouble with anything of consequence, too soft to handle the harsh realities of the world.
And yet no amount of cotton wool could shield her from it, whatever the mild-mannered and demure smile she plastered on her face daily.
Had it really been almost a year since she turned High Fae? Since that awful night she and Nesta were taken from their beds and the entire course of their futures altered by a mad king and Feyre’s spurned High Lord?
Of course, no one ever bothered to mention or recall that it was in fact she - sweet, little Elain - who had saved her sister and Cassian - saved all of Prythian alongside them, really - when she lodged that blade into the King of Hybern’s neck.
For a family of mostly ancient beings (by her still somewhat mortal standards, at least), they certainly seemed to have selective amnesia, forgetting that she was not made of glass.
Made for more than just gardening and baking and being watched like a hawk while they waited for her to accept the mating bond with Lucien.
Even Nesta seemed to have found her feet after those rocky couple of months. Cold, stubborn Nesta who was unrecognisable now that she and Cassian were in their first flush of love. Some nights, she was sure she could hear their raucous coupling all the way from the House of Wind no matter where she slept.
And despite the cruel words shared between them in recent months, Elain was happy for Nesta. She had found her place amongst the Inner Circle, with Cassian, with her Valkyries…
She proved instrumental in obtaining the Dread Trove due to her Cauldron-given powers. Those same powers which ultimately saved their baby sister when she birthed their beloved nephew, Nyx.
Rhys and Feyre weren’t much better. Their love was insufferable at the best of times, but since the High Lord almost lost his mate, Elain could hardly walk into a room without the scent of arousal clawing at her nose.
It was why she’d taken a liking to baking, the smell of dough and batter almost enough to stifle the constant reminder of what she was consciously rejecting every day she did not open herself up to Lucien. Almost.
His visits had grown less frequent, no doubt deterred by the careful wall Elain held firm in his presence. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel the bond, the pull towards him. He was certainly very handsome despite his mechanical eye (or perhaps because of it), and everyone was constantly assuring her of his good manners, his kind heart, his brave soul.
In truth, she knew that loving Lucien would be easy. But she had grown tired of easy, of pretty dresses and sideways glances whenever she had a vision. Of being treated like a delicate doll that needed protecting rather than a grown woman who needed to make a life for herself.
Perhaps that was why she entertained the idea of Azriel. Because he seemed to see her as more than just a delicate flower and pursuing him gave her a semblance of autonomy, of feeling like her choices were her own again.
And yet after that last Solstice when something had almost happened between them, he’d withdrawn his affections. All the better, she supposed, since only a few months passed before she noticed something blooming between him and Gwyn. She was happy for them, but a small part of her resented him for dangling that bit of hope in front of her.
It didn’t help that since Nesta stopped being persona non grata, every care was taken to train her in mastering her magic. Just last week, she heard from Feyre that Nesta had managed to winnow. Only across the training ring, but it was still more than Elain had ever been able to.
Not without anyone to guide the deep well of magic they all seemed to conveniently forget she still possessed.
The excuses were always well meaning on the surface, dismissive platitudes veiled in kind words.
“The garden is looking lovely, Elain.”
A diversion, a pleasant distraction fitting for the softest sister. As if her tending to flowers was all she was good for. As if her skill at coaxing life from the soil was enough to justify keeping her out of the council meetings, away from the training grounds, and blissfully unaware of her own potential.
"Training? Oh, Elain, you don’t need to worry about that. There's no reason for you to learn how to fight."
Said with a reassuring smile, as though sparing her from combat was a kindness. As if she could not possibly want to learn how to protect herself, since there would always be someone there to shield her.
“You’re safe here, Elain.”
A statement meant to soothe, but it felt like a cage. Velaris had been safe, once. But safe did not mean fulfilled. Safe did not mean free.
“You should rest."
Always rest. Always delicate. Always too much or not enough.
“Maybe it’s a good thing the visions have stopped. You shouldn’t have to bear the burden of them.”
Spoken lightly, dismissively, as if the erratic nature of her powers was reason enough to pretend they did not exist. As if she hadn’t already borne the weight of the Cauldron’s magic. As if ignoring it would make it disappear. Especially since they hadn’t stopped at all, she’d just stopped sharing them.
“You have a place here, Elain. You don’t need to prove anything."
But that was never the point.
"You’ve been through enough. Why put yourself through more?"
Because she wanted to. Because she wanted more.
And so Elain smiled, and nodded, and let them tell her what she needed, who she should be.
Praying to the Mother she didn’t believe that it would somehow be enough.
The High Lord of Autumn had always been a creature of calculation, a male who played the long game with a cunning that few could rival. Whilst he wasn’t solely responsible for the reputation for cruelty so often associated with his court, he certainly carried the mantle of his predecessors with precision and often unwarranted vigour.
Beron sat in his grand study, the firelight casting harsh shadows over the sharp planes of his face. Eris stood before him, hands clasped behind his back, his expression impassive as his father leaned forward, inspecting the latest reports from his spies relating to unrest in the eastern border of the Autumn Court.
Eris was waiting for his father’s attention to shift to him, so he could plead the case for his exiled brother to return to court. It was not an act of selflessness, except perhaps for the pure unadulterated joy he knew it would bring their mother to have her favourite son return home. And gods knew that the female needed any bit of joy she could find being married to the monster sat before him.
No. Eris had his own reasons for wanting little Lucien back in Autumn and it had everything to do with ensuring that Rhysand and his court would follow through on their pledge to support his accession to the throne when the time finally came to rid the world of Beron Vanserra.
And that day could not come soon enough.
All he had to do was get around the issue of convincing Beron to issue Lucien with a pardon.
He cleared his throat, having grown tired of Beron’s deliberate lack of acknowledgement. It was a tactic used by his dear father to remind him and his brothers of their place in the world. As if growing up under his cruel thumb could have ever made that unclear to Eris.
Beron slowly raised his eyes to his eldest son.
At the silent invitation, Eris spoke. “I have a proposition, Father. With all the upheaval of the war with Hybern, I think it is time we bring Lucien back into the fold.”
“You wish me to pardon Lucien,” Beron mused, rolling a goblet of deep amber wine between his fingers. “After all these years of calling him a disgrace, a traitor, a waste of Vanserra blood. Now you want him home?”
Eris did not flinch. “He is still of our blood.”
Well, at least he was certain they shared at least some blood, but whether his youngest brother was a true Vanserra was up for debate. Eris had always had his suspicions but would never dare raise them to his father for fear of what retribution Beron would delight in taking upon his sweet mother.
Beron snorted. “Only by technicality. The boy has been sniffing around the Spring Court, and now the Night Court like a stray fox since you let him escape. I’d say he’s more their pet than ours.”
Eris remained perfectly still. He knew better than to rise to Beron’s bait. This was a game, and he would not lose - not when the stakes were too high.
“Lucien is of little consequence,” Beron went on, voice smooth, almost bored. “And so long as I draw breath, he will remain exiled.”
Eris sighed, glancing toward the large bay windows where the golden Autumn light bled into the horizon.
So predictable. So maddeningly, frustratingly predictable.
He turned back, allowing the barest flicker of calculated indifference to cross his face. It was time to dangle the bait.
“Very well,” Eris said, “then let us discuss someone who is of consequence.”
Beron raised a brow.
“Elain Archeron,” Eris continued smoothly. “Lucien’s mate.”
His words were met with silence until Beron let out a slow, amused breath.
“Elain Archeron,” he echoed, swirling his wine again. “That little doe-eyed thing? I hardly think she matters.”
Eris allowed himself a thin smile. “Perhaps not, but I think the power she wields matters. A Seer at your disposal, able to glimpse potential threats in our court and beyond. Imagine what could have been prevented had we had such an asset before the war.”
Beron hummed, considering as he gestured for Eris to continue.
“She is already of our court by proxy - her mate is a Vanserra. She has spent too long stagnating in the Night Court, where they let her talents wither.” He let his voice lower, purposeful. “If she were to reside here instead… under our influence…”
There was no need to say more. Since Briallyn’s death, his father had been eager to fill her shoes, find some other advantage when it came to dealing with his fellow High Lords, should the opportunity for another war against Prythian present itself.
Eris prayed to the Mother that it did not, least of all if it meant allying themselves with a death god with a penchant for kidnapping females.
Beron’s gaze had sharpened.
The hook had been set, it seemed. Now to reel him in.
Beron allowed a thoughtful look to cross his face, playing the game as he always did. “You’re suggesting we bring her here.”
Eris smirked. “I am suggesting we keep her here.”
Beron turned his goblet lazily, but his voice was thoughtful. “You make an interesting point, Eris. A surprising one.” A pause. “And yet, I cannot help but recall that you once made a similar argument about her elder sister.”
Eris stilled. He recalled how disappointed his father had been that she would not, in fact, be joining the Vanserra family after all. But then again, they had only shared one dance and were interrupted by the Illyrian general. What hope did he have against the relentless pursuit of someone she was, he had heard, living with in a house she had no means to escape from?
“Ah, yes,” Beron went on, feigning delightful reminiscence. “Nesta Archeron. Blessed with power from the Cauldron itself. You swore she would be an asset to this court as your wife.” He tilted his head. “And yet, here we are. You failed to secure her hand, failed to do your duty to this family.”
A muscle ticked in Eris’s jaw. He had anticipated Beron’s pettiness, but still it gutted him to be reminded of how his father had twisted his previous duty into something vile.
He had never wanted Nesta. Not truly. But Beron had. Had wanted her for the raw magic thrumming in her blood, for the power she could have brought under Autumn’s control. And if there was anything Beron craved more than anything else, it was power.
There was no denying she was a formidable dancer and certainly nice to look at, but he had no time for and certainly no business with females. Not until his place as High Lord was secured.
Nesta would have made a valuable addition to their court, to be sure.
But Beron was right. And so he would push for acquiring the next best thing.
“The eldest Archeron sister is a lost cause,” Eris acceded, his tone tinged with mock resignation. “Nesta has become too deeply entangled with the Night Court’s general, and no amount of meddling will undo it.” He continued with unfeigned distaste.
How that brute could ever deserve such a creature was beyond him.
But at that, his father’s attention had shifted.
“Elain, however,” Beron mused, “is still in play.”
Eris’s fingers tightened behind his back.
Beron leaned back in his chair, his golden eyes gleaming. “She too is Cauldron-blessed.” He was intrigued. Good.
Eris went on, “Elain’s power is subtle. A whisper of the future rather than a sword in hand. You always taught us that brute strength was only one part of ruling. Would it not be advantageous to have something… more refined?”
Another long pause.
Then Beron exhaled, as if suddenly bored. “Very well. If Lucien cannot secure a place for her here, then perhaps I’ll offer her as a bride to one of your brothers.”
The words landed like a falling axe.
Eris inclined his head in mock agreement, but inwardly, his mind whirred.
He didn’t care about Elain Archeron, nor did he particularly care about Lucien’s likely reluctance to return. His youngest brother had made his choices long ago, and with a bit of skilled manoeuvring, he could be tempted by the offer of returning home.
But this was not about sentimentality. It was about survival. For him, for his mother, his brothers - for his entire court.
Eris had already laid the groundwork for his plan to overthrow Beron. He had made the necessary alliances, remained in contact with the ever-lurking Shadowsinger, and ensured that when he struck, he would not do so alone.
The moment Beron fell, he would need Rhysand’s backing to secure his rule. And that meant ensuring that Elain Archeron remained unharmed.
Lucien had been comfortably sequestered in the confines of a ruined estate in the mortal lands with Vassa and Jurian, his own merry Band of Exiles. It did not escape him that Feyre and the rest of the Inner Circle thought their title ridiculous, which was ironic given that they referred to themselves as the Court of Dreams.
Having spent time in Velaris trying (and failing) to soften Elain towards him, he had soon realised that was true only insofar as your dreams did not deviate from their own.
In truth, there were some days where the mating bond with Elain was no more than a dull ache, largely due to the mortal queen’s innate ability to divert him. Her wild spirit made her quick to temper, and Lucien admired with no small amount of internal guilt that her cerulean eyes seemed to gleam a bit brighter when they landed on his form over Jurian’s.
He had found a home of sorts with the two humans. A purpose. Something he had been lacking in the tail end of his time in Spring, and certainly in Velaris, the only thing tying him to the latter being his reluctant mate and wanting to keep a close eye on the machinations of his own home court, information readily supplied courtesy of Eris.
Rhys and Feyre did not need him for dealing with his eldest brother, their relations likely to be more cordial without his contentious presence.
But here? Here he was trying to make a difference, to build a small corner of the world that was freer and fairer than others he had known.
And then there was the matter of Vassa’s enslavement to Koschei. It’s true, the death god had allowed her some reprieve from captivity, but the three of them knew that a day would come when he came to collect her and amidst the rebuilding, he worked with Jurian to try and find a way to free her from his curse so she never had to return to that godsforsaken lake on the Continent ever again.
And so when a letter arrived bearing the official seal of the High Lord of Autumn, the flash of that red and gold wax seal at their belt sending a pulse of heat through his veins, he was more than surprised.
A cold knot formed in Lucien’s chest as he broke the seal and unfolded the heavy paper.
By my command as High Lord of the Autumn Court, I, Beron, extend to you a formal pardon.
You are hereby granted permission to return to the Autumn Court with full restoration of your standing and privileges as a son of this court.
The invitation is also extended to the Lady Elain Archeron. We expect you both to present yourselves at the Forest House at your earliest convenience.
Lucien’s eyes widened as he took in the words. It was Vassa who found a further small piece of parchment tucked inside the burgundy envelope, written in Eris’s hand.
Do not squander this opportunity, little brother, for our mother’s sake, if nothing else.
Lucien stared at the words until they blurred. The firelight from the pit cast flickering shadows over the parchment, dancing over the careful strokes of Eris’s hand.
"Well?" Vassa pressed, standing now, eyes gleaming with interest. "What do they want?"
Lucien scoffed, but the sound lacked real humour. "It’s a pardon. Signed by Beron himself.”
Jurian let out a low whistle, setting his blade aside. "That’s a first."
"It’s a trap," Vassa added bluntly.
Lucien folded the letter carefully, running a finger over the wax seal before tucking it into his coat. "Most likely. But I’d be a fool not to consider what game Eris is playing. He wouldn’t have pushed for this without a reason."
Vassa crossed her arms. "And you’re tempted."
Lucien glanced out the window toward the rolling green fields and the distant forests that once separated the mortal lands from Prythian. He had spent years thinking of what it would feel like to be welcomed back, to reclaim something he had lost. But he knew better than to believe in the illusions of home.
"I need to speak to Rhysand."
Jurian groaned, leaning back against the table. “You give those bats far too much credit."
Vassa’s expression darkened, but she said nothing, merely turning away to gaze intently at the fire. Lucien knew that look. The reminder that their time here, together, was fragile. The world would always call them back in different directions.
Lucien exhaled. "I’ll decide after that."
Vassa snorted, a smirk ghosting over her lips. "If you think they’ll let you take Elain with you, you’re as foolish as you are pretty."
It did not escape his notice that with her flowing red hair and tempestuous nature, she was far better suited to thrive in Autumn than Elain. It also did not escape his notice that she had just called him pretty.
"You should be flattered." Jurian grinned. “That may well be the nicest thing she’s ever said to either of us.”
Lucien chuckled, promising them he’d return soon, and winnowed to Velaris.
The River House was quiet when Lucien stepped onto the front steps and rapped his knuckles against the door. No matter how many times he had visited, or how many times Feyre insisted there was no need, he’d never felt comfortable enough to just saunter in as the rest of their cohorts did.
It was not the silence of an empty house he heard as he waited, but of a home at peace - of warmth and family and the kind of belonging that had always felt just out of reach for him.
The door swung open, revealing Feyre, her golden-brown hair pinned back, baby Nyx cradled in her arms. The child blinked up at Lucien with those startling violet eyes, so much like his father’s.
Lucien let a smile tug at his lips. “Now, there's a fine-looking princeling.”
Feyre’s eyes softened. “He’s getting bigger every day. Soon he’ll be knocking people over with those wings.”
Behind her, Rhysand leaned casually in the doorway of the sitting room, arms crossed. “You’ve made quite the journey to coo over my son. Or is there another reason for your visit?”
Lucien rolled his eyes but stepped inside, taking a breath of the crisp, firewood-scented air before reaching into his coat. “Actually, I do have news.” He pulled out the letter, its deep red tone a stark contrast to his skin, and held it out. “It would seem I’ve been pardoned.”
Rhys’s brows lifted as he took the letter, unfurling it with an elegant flick of his fingers. His violet eyes flicked over the words, his expression unreadable - until his lips parted, and he read aloud:
“We expect you both to present yourselves at the Forest House at your earliest convenience.”
His eyes flicked back to Lucien. “This invitation is for Elain.”
A quiet thud sounded from the stairwell.
Lucien turned just in time to see Elain standing at the top of the staircase, one hand resting lightly on the polished railing. Her brows were knit, her lips slightly parted, brown eyes scanning the three of them in the study.
She had sensed Lucien’s arrival moments ago, his scent and the pattern of his heartbeat unmistakable to her fae senses.
“What invitation?” She asked, wringing her hands together.
Silence. Feyre, Rhys, and Lucien all looked up at her but said nothing.
Feyre opened her mouth, her expression carefully neutral, as if searching for the right words - some kind of diversion, some way to redirect.
Elain’s eyes flicked to each of them in turn as she waited.
Lucien sighed, straightening. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“What. Invitation.” she repeated, more insistent this time, lifting her chin slightly.
Lucien didn’t answer immediately. Neither did Feyre or Rhys.
Elain descended the stairs with the same grace as if she were entering a grand ballroom, each step deliberate. But her eyes- sharp, unwavering - gave away the steel beneath.
Lucien shifted where he stood, and she noticed. Not nervous, exactly, but hesitant. Careful. He only ever looked at her like that when he thought she might shatter.
Feyre cleared her throat, an attempt at casualness that did not fool Elain. “It’s just-”
Elain’s gaze snapped to her sister. “Don’t lie to me.”
Feyre hesitated, worrying her bottom lip.
Rhys sighed. “It’s an invitation,” he said plainly, folding the letter in half before setting it on the desk. “From Beron.”
Elain’s brow furrowed slightly, but she waited.
Lucien exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s pardoned me.” His voice was careful, measured, but there was something else there, something unreadable. “I’ve been invited back to Autumn. To reclaim my place.”
Elain’s expression didn’t change. Perhaps if she wanted them to stop treating her like a simpering little girl, she had to start acting like it.
Lucien hesitated, then added, “And you’ve been invited as well.”
A silence stretched between them.
Elain blinked, slow and thoughtful. “Why?”
Lucien clenched his jaw. “Because you’re my mate.”
Something in her expression flickered - something he couldn’t quite name. But her voice remained steady as she asked, “And if I refuse?”
Lucien’s lips parted, but it was Rhys who answered, his tone carefully neutral. “Then you don’t go.”
The implication in his voice was clear.
Elain looked at her sister, at her High Lord. They weren’t telling her she should go. If anything, they seemed to expect her to refuse outright and did not feel it was worth the effort of trying to convince her.
She turned back to Lucien. “And what do you think?”
“I don’t think it’s a-” He stopped himself, sensing her displeasure through the bond. Then Lucien let out a quiet breath, searching her face. “I think it’s your choice, Elain.”
She was silent for another moment. Perhaps... perhaps this was the out she had been waiting for.
“I’ll go with you.” She said with conviction. “To Autumn.”
Feyre inhaled sharply. Rhys’s expression gave away nothing, but he didn’t look surprised.
Lucien, for all his measured calm, blinked once. “Are you sure?”
Elain lifted her chin. “Yes.”
Her voice was clear, certain.
“I’ll ask Nuala and Cerridwen to help me pack.” She said, more to herself than to the others, as she turned on her heels and ran rather than walked up the stairs, lifting the long tulle skirt of her pale pink dress as she did so.
And though she wasn’t sure whether it was the invitation itself or their expectation that she’d say no, but she found that defying it felt rather good.
Perhaps an adventure, some time away from her sisters, from this stifling house in this perfect city, was exactly what she needed.