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“Letting go means to come to the realization that some people are part of your history, but not a part of your destiny.” - Steve Maraboli
“You couldn't relive your life, skipping the awful parts, without losing what made it worthwhile. You had to accept it as a whole--like the world, or the person you loved.” - Stewart O'Nan
“No,” Feyre breathed, her eyes wide as she watched Tamlin and Lucien walk into full view in Hybern’s throne room.
Her gaze flicked to Tamlin as he took a step closer to her, and her body tensed.
Lucien placed a hand on Tamlin’s shoulder, trying to keep distance between them, since Feyre clearly seemed to prefer that. Judging by the sight of the injured shadowsinger being supported by Rhysand and his general, the King of Hybern had not followed the plan Tamlin had been so insistent that he would - no bloodshed, simply Feyre in exchange for access to Spring.
Hybern hadn’t followed through on the agreement, just as Lucien had warned. Blood had been shed - but Tamlin didn’t much care if Hybern spilled Night Court blood, his bias against them was so strong. He likely wouldn’t see it as the glaring warning that it was- to everyone’s detriment - he was so intent on rescuing Feyre, it wouldn’t occur to him. Tamlin had thought of little else for months. He’d been determined to break the bond between Feyre and Rhysand, convinced that Rhysand was using it to manipulate her.
And he could have been right. Daemati didn’t just read minds, after all. Making her believe certain things happened differently, twisting the truth - it was all child’s play for one with power like his.
Lucien had believed it too. She couldn’t read, could barely write when she left, and she had refused to learn. And then she sent a letter- no, a note - breaking it off? After all that had transpired? That wasn’t Feyre’s style. Feyre would face anything head on, and then make a foul gesture at it. He admired her for that.
But there was something in her expression when he saw her in the forest. Something in her face now was different too. She’d changed.
Maybe it was the product of mind control.
Or, maybe it was genuine. Tamlin had been awful to everyone before she left. All of them were more fragile after returning from Under the Mountain, each suffering from what happened down there. And Spring was so… sparse now. There was nobody left to help control Tamlin’s worst impulses. Only Lucien. And Lucien couldn’t match the High Lord’s power, especially while he was pulled in so many different directions.
But Lucien had felt increasingly uncomfortable ignoring the tension between them, pretending he didn’t see it building even before her departure. He found it harder to ignore her protestations as his doubts grew as to the reasons for the shift in her allegiances - he simply didn’t know if she was actually choosing the Night Court or if she was just being made to believe she was. But ignoring a female that had repeatedly made her wishes known - regardless of how genuine they were…
It didn’t sit right with him at all. And going to these lengths?
Unfortunately, Tamlin didn’t agree. He would simply act out, and then snarl that Feyre had done everything she could for him; so he would do the same for her.
So, here they were. Somehow allied with Hybern, after everything.
“No,” Feyre repeated louder, staring at Tamlin.
“What was the cost?” Rhysand asked.
“You have my word,” Tamlin said to the King of Hybern, perched on his throne of human bones. He ignored Rhysand entirely.
“What have you done?” Feyre demanded of the room.
“We made a bargain,” the King replied. “I give you over, and he agrees to let my forces enter Prythian through his territory. And then use it as a base as we remove that ridiculous wall.”
Feyre shook her head, incredulous, and looked to Lucien with pleading eyes. He cringed in shame. He couldn’t meet her stare. He already made the bargain, he tried to tell her with his silence. He won’t listen to reason.
“You’re insane,” someone snarled.
Lucien made one last attempt, as quietly as he could. Tamlin hated being disagreed with, made a fool of, especially in public. “Tam,” Lucien breathed. “This isn’t right. This isn’t the way-”
But Tamlin ignored his emissary, just as Lucien knew he would. He held his hand out like he was instructing a dog to heel as he threw Lucien’s hand off him. “Feyre.”
“You,” the King of Hybern said with a finger pointed at Feyre, “are a very difficult female to get ahold of. Of course, we’ve also agreed that you’ll work for me once you’ve been returned home to your husband, but… Is it husband-to-be, or husband? I can’t remember.”
“Tamlin,” Lucien said again, louder this time. He knew nothing of Feyre apparently being made to work for Hybern. Surely not? Lucien felt the blood drain from his face.
“I’m taking you home,” Tamlin said to Feyre, the only one he would pay attention to.
The tension in the room only grew, as the threats to break the bond between Rhysand and Feyre were spoken to the room.
Until-
“I’ll come with you,” Feyre promised, eyes flicking between Tamlin and Lucien - as though Lucien was complicit in the fool’s bargain that Tamlin had made, “if you leave them alone. Let them go.” A lie. It was clear.
“They’re monsters,” Tamlin argued, as he reached forwards to grab her, sensing the insincerity in her words, perhaps. She somehow winnowed out of his grasp.
And all Hel broke loose. Lucien watched with a hand on his sword. He’d found himself on a side he didn’t agree with. He wouldn’t fight unless he was forced to.
So, he just watched as fights broke out across the room, and it was revealed that Feyre and Rhysand were mates. Gods above.
“If you bring me from here, if you take me from my mate, I will destroy you. I will destroy your court, and everything you hold dear,” Feyre snarled.
Mouth held tight, Tamlin responded, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No- she doesn’t,” the King chimed in, using the same friendly tone Amarantha used to.
The doors opened and four human women walked in- no, four queens, wearing their finery. “There will be no destroying.” The queen’s guards followed them in, dragging two more human girls along with them. Bound and gagged and wearing dirty, torn nightgowns.
“Because,” the King continued, “you will find, Feyre Archeron, that it is in your best interest to behave.”
Then Lucien realised- the two girls that had been dragged in like prisoners were Feyre’s sisters. They were recognisable from the hair colour that all three of them shared. One of them in particular resembled Feyre closely- or, she would if only Feyre held more ice in her soul. Even dishevelled and dirty, she held herself prouder than any of the queens. A backbone of steel. The other sister looked simply terrified, her eyes reddened, sobbing quietly.
This wasn’t what Tamlin thought he was agreeing to, Lucien knew it. He wouldn’t have agreed to that.
“Why did you think I asked my dear friend Ianthe to see who Feyre Archeron would appreciate having with her for eternity?” The King smirked as he confirmed that Ianthe had gone behind everyone’s back. That she had her own ambitions.
And Tamlin looked shaken to his core. He had overlooked every bit of her insidious actions, despite his repeated warnings. He ignored every piece of advice Lucien had given him, ignored his reservations about this deal and now…
This wasn’t right. “She sold out - she sold out Feyre’s family,” Lucien managed to grind out. He was so disgusted. “To you.”
“Sold out?” The King snorted. “ Or saved from the shackles of mortal death? Ianthe suggested they were both strong-willed women, like their sister. No doubt they’ll survive. And prove to our queens it can be done. If one has the strength.”
Eternal youth. From the Cauldron itself. The deals that had been made at others’ expense… Lucien was feeling sicker by the minute.
“Don’t you-” Feyre hissed.
“I would suggest bracing yourselves,” the King said, releasing a burst of power.
It ripped through the room, and Lucien, as he had too many times in his life, found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tamlin lunged for Feyre to protect her from the blast, and she hurled knives in response.
One of them, forced off target by the blast of raw magic, embedded itself in Lucien’s chest.
He gasped in pain as the blade found his heart.
He heard little of the ensuing conversation. But he did hear Tamlin’s voice. And the King’s conciliatory response.
And then Lucien was thrown backwards into the Cauldron.
At first, he was aware only of the sensation of falling in water. Neither hot nor cold. He could see nothing. But the Cauldron wasn’t that deep, he should have reached the bottom immediately.
He should have been dead - the blade had pierced his heart.
How was he aware? He wasn’t, just moments ago.
Hello, fox, came a quiet voice. Lucien couldn’t pinpoint where it came from; it was all around him, as well as whispering in his ears. You frightened child, you angry male, you grieving lover. Hello, Lucien.
He couldn’t place the voice, but he knew it in his soul. The way it crooned. It wasn’t soothing, but it was deeply familiar.
Everyone knows my voice. I made all things, and I spoke to them like this.
Was he dead? The thought didn’t frighten him.
You are not dead. There was life in your body when you were thrown into my waters - though only just.
But the Cauldron gave Jurian his life back-
I will not create life on demand. Jurian had consciousness. He was alive, he just needed form - I gave that to him.
Understanding struck him, then. He was thrown in here to save him.
Save you? No.
So, he was to die after all? A part of him, a part he had tried to quiet over the years, had wished for that. To not be forced through another day. To be with Jesminda in their next life.
There were worse things than being dead.
Oh, yes. There are a great many things worse than death. But, you are not to die today, Lucien. Or be saved. You are to be reborn.
Reborn?
The voice didn’t answer this time.
The darkness of the inside of the cauldron lit up. He was no longer floating in water - he was dry, sitting in a familiar armchair, in a warm room with a large crackling fire in the hearth. It was exactly the same as it was when he saw it last; the night before Jesminda was murdered.
Her family’s cottage.
And from behind him, came her voice. “Lucien?” He was afraid to look. “Lucien,” she repeated, a smile in her tone.
His resolve broke at that. Jesminda’s smile was the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed. He thought that he would never see it again. He would never miss the opportunity to look upon it once more, after all these years without it.
He turned to see her standing by the door to her bedchamber. She was wearing that muslin dress that was embroidered with leaves - her favourite one - only it was unmarred by blood and gore and dirt like it was in her final moments. Her delicate orange and black wings glowed like stained glass from the light that streamed in from the window, and the light of the fire. Her dark curls tumbled over her shoulders, and her brown eyes were bright with love.
Nobody had looked at him like that before her. Or since.
“You look a state, Lucien.”
He snorted. She alone could look at him with such softness, and say the harshest truths.
He looked down at himself. There was a bloodstain on his chest. He could feel blood dripping down his spine from the scars on his back, put there by Tamlin’s whip. He realised that his mechanical eye was missing when a droplet of blood from his empty socket - or maybe from one of his facial scars - dripped onto his lap.
Curiously, he did not feel any pain.
He didn’t need to look in a mirror to know that he did, in fact, look in a state, just as she had said. He wasn’t offended. He just smiled wryly. “That’s what a century and a half of missing you did to me, Jes.”
“Don’t lay that at my door,” she said with a tut, approaching him in his position at the fire. “You know damn well it’s because you can’t keep your mouth closed when you should.”
She straddled his lap, kissing his bleeding cheek softly, and grasping his hair in her hand to hold him in place while she did so.
He’d forgotten how she used to do that. Gods, but she owned him, body and soul.
“True,” Lucien breathed in response, his throat feeling thick as he breathed in her once familiar, now nearly forgotten scent - smoked wood, and something floral that he could never place. Warm. Just so warm. “But I do miss you. Every day.”
Jesminda pulled back to look at him, open wounds and all, and smiled at him. He knew what she was saying, without making her use the words. She accepted him, flaws and all, the way he had never experienced anyone else to do.
He had always shied away from people looking at his wounds too closely. But in front of her he felt no shame.
He still didn’t feel that tug, the golden thread stringing their souls together, like he always thought would happen eventually. But, at that moment, it didn’t matter.
He loved her completely.
And she loved him the same.
“I know,” she said. “I was so in love with you. I didn’t regret it, you know, even in those last moments. I just wished it had been different.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lucien choked. “It was my-”
“It wasn’t your fault,” she argued. “We were young, and careless, and in love, in a court that would never have accepted our relationship. We took risks we shouldn’t have and we were discovered. But the one that should carry the guilt is the one that swung the sword.” She swiped her thumb through the blood on his cheek, and placed a gentle kiss on his lips.
A kiss he never imagined he would feel again.
When she withdrew, he noticed an uneven line of red around her neck. In exactly the spot where her head was hacked off by his father. The blood welled and spilled alarmingly fast, staining her dress where it met the fabric.
“No,” Lucien said, pressing his hands against the wound. He couldn’t lose her again.
“I’m dead, Lucien. You can’t lose me again; I never returned.”
“But-”
“My love,” Jesminda said. “You held onto me, or the idea of me, for so long. I became less of a comfort for you than I was a source of pain. Please - know in your heart how much I loved you, and let me go.”
“You’re not-”
“We can never be again- it’s not destined. But, I’m at rest in the arms of the Mother. Let the pain go. Let the grief go. Live.”
Lucien frowned. “You aren’t religious, Jes. You weren’t religious.”
Jesminda paused, then when she answered, it was that voice again, pouring from her lips.
You know it’s not her you’re speaking to, Lucien. She cannot answer you. The Mother never gives back what she takes.
Lucien stared, horrified. He tried to move from underneath Not-Jesminda.
But I know all things; I made them. Not-Jesminda gently took his face again, in both hands. She truly didn’t regret loving you. She wouldn’t want you to suffer the way you have, for so long. She wouldn’t want your apologies, because she didn’t blame you. And now that she’s at rest, she wouldn’t want her old life back.
Lucien felt his remaining eye fill with tears. “We were going to leave. We had a whole life planned.”
And that life wasn’t destined for either of you.
“We would have been happy.”
Perhaps, for a time. But one way or another, you would have found yourself back on the path that was meant for you. As would she.
“Which was?” Lucien demanded.
She would have died on Beron’s sword one hundred and fifty three years ago. Or at any point afterwards, had that not occurred as it did.
“Why?”
It was her path. In her next life, she will have a different path to walk. But, until then, she rests.
“That’s so cruel.”
Not-Jesminda just smiled, like one would at a child that wasn’t grasping something in a lesson plan that was meant for an older student. A little exasperated, but unsurprised. Let go of the pain, Lucien. Keep the love. There are other plans for you.
“What plans?”
The bleeding from Not-Jesminda’s neck increased. You’ll find out.
The cottage faded away before the wound ran dry, and Lucien was relieved that he didn’t have to watch Jesminda’s head be separated from her body for a second time. However, he realised that once again he was in the dark of the cauldron.
This time, though, the water felt icy cold.
Because now you are further from death.
The voice added nothing else.
It was silent. Eerie.
Lucien got the feeling in his stomach that he used to get when he could feel his father’s anger in the air, and knew that violence was coming. More recently, he felt that same sensation around Tamlin’s outbursts.
Vulnerable. Afraid. Helpless against one much stronger than him.
Let go of it, Lucien.
He tried to remember a time that he didn’t feel afraid. His tactic for staying alive so long had involved cleaving to the favour of one more powerful than he was, and weathering their tempers.
It had been so long that he had lived like that.
He had tried- he tried for Feyre Under the Mountain. Even in the manor in Spring, he spoke out against Tamlin. But against the might of a High Lord, he hadn’t dared push too hard. He didn’t have a hope of standing against him.
All the times he had let his mouth run away from him, he had been punished severely.
At that thought, he touched a hand to his face. It was smooth, unscarred. There was no hole where his left eye was. He was whole again.
You were never not whole, Lucien, even with only one eye.
Was that what the Cauldron was trying to impart on him, with the little game it played with Jesminda’s likeness? Why?
I told you. You are to be reborn. Your guilt and your grief and your fears have kept you from where you need to go for long enough.
Where was it that he should go? He was an exile. While Beron lived he couldn’t return to Autumn. He wouldn't.
Your path started in Autumn, but it wasn’t meant to stay there. You know where to follow it to, Lucien Spell-Cleaver.
With that, the Cauldron tipped forward, spilling him out onto the hard stone floor in a wave of black, smoke-coated water. After the darkness of the Cauldron, the throne room felt too bright. He was soaked to his skin, and frozen to the bone.
It was rather like the times he had fainted, where it took a moment to recognise the faces looking at him when he came to. But he did recognise them, after a long moment.
He released a wave of heat, drying his clothes and warming his bones, while he oriented himself.
The faces watching him were disbelieving. After a moment, Tamlin pulled him up to his feet, peering at his face as he did so. “Lucien, your face.”
“What about it?” Lucien asked weakly.
“Your scars have gone. You have two eyes again. But one’s gold.”
“As you see, ladies,” Hybern interjected, “the Cauldron is quite safe.”
“It hasn’t changed his race,” one of the mortal queens interjected. “He was already faerie. It just healed his wounds.”
Hybern inclined his head. “As you wish.” He faced Feyre’s sisters and gestured to the cauldron. “Ladies, eternity awaits. Prove to their Majesties the Cauldron is safe for… strong-willed individuals.”
“Stop,” Tamlin said, over the struggles of one of the sisters, thrashing in her bonds, and the sobs of the other. “This is not part of the deal. Stop this now.”
Hybern ignored him, placing some form of tether on him, cutting off Tamlin’s attempt to lunge. “Put the prettier one in first,” he instructed.
Lucien felt dazed, barely holding himself up. “Stop this,” he said, his voice clearer than he expected. He expected it to sound hoarse from the water, from the unease with the events. It should have been as weak as he felt, on his shaking legs.
But Hybern ignored Lucien too, clear voice or no.
And Elain - he thought her name was Elain - was shoved into the Cauldron, her scream of terror cut off abruptly as she sank into the depthless water.
Lucien watched on with horror, helplessly.
When she was expelled, only moments after she was thrown in, she was undeniably changed. Her pretty features had been beautified further, her ears were now pointed, her limbs were longer and smoother. Fae.
She drew her knees up to her chest, and as she did so, it became clear that her nightgown had turned sheer, and she was revealing every inch of her new body to the sniggering guards. “Don’t just leave her on the damned floor,” Lucien snapped.
He gathered his strength and he dried her with his light, just as he dried himself, and draped his jacket around her. She cringed away from him in fear.
The King gave him a long look, but didn’t stop him - then turned his attention back to the humans. “The hellcat now, if you’ll be so kind.”
The hellcat took more effort to force into the Cauldron. She clawed and kicked with the strength of several women, powered with pure rage. Her head had to be pushed under.
As she sank, she pointed one sharp finger at the King. A threat of vengeance.
Lucien wrapped his arms around Elain to pull her out of the way of the coming flood of dark water that contained her elder sister, unsure what had inspired such a protective instinct in him. Perhaps just empathy, having been in her shoes moments before.
Then - Nessie? - he couldn’t remember, shoved him away from her as soon as she emerged from the sinister waters. Lucien hadn’t gotten to say anything to the frightened, Newly-Made fae that had just been in his arms. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. She wouldn’t meet her sister’s either. He couldn’t blame her- an aura of dark power, of something… something- simply radiated out from the second Newly Made Archeron.
So Lucien didn’t argue with her when she screeched, “Get off her!” as she pulled Elain away.
He let her go, and left her to the comfort of the aptly named ‘hellcat’ - perhaps the one thing Hybern had ever been right about - and took his place back at Tamlin’s side, just for the moment, as he watched the performance Feyre was putting on.
“Don’t let him take me,” she cried to Tamlin, through heavy crocodile tears. “I don’t want to go back.”
But something was different in the air, Lucien felt it. He realised Feyre had cleaved the wards - her signature was all over the burst of power. He looked around the room at where his loyalty to Tamlin had taken him. The male that had once been his friend and his saviour. Then looked at the Night Court, all pretending that Feyre had broken free of Rhysand’s control - and saw that Tamlin was falling for every line. The male so desperately wanted to believe it that he couldn’t help himself.
Liars everywhere. Deception. “That’s enough,” Lucien said to himself. Nobody looked his way, so caught up were they in their little theatre.
He didn’t need to be part of whatever bullshit Feyre was pulling, and he wouldn’t continue to support Tamlin in whatever bullshit he was planning to pull.
Lucien was done.
No more dwelling on the past. No more misplaced loyalty - look where it had led.
It was time to continue his life again. It was time to find his path.
Lucien winnowed away.
On his first jump, he winnowed to the Summer Court, near to the Winter border. Then to the mountains of the Dawn Court. And then into Day. And into the capital city of Rhodes.
He cleaved the wards in Helion’s own wing of the Palace, and materialised right in the middle of his office.
Helion wasn’t at his formal desk- he was lounging on a comfortable looking armchair studying a scroll. More scrolls were spread out on the low table in front of him. He had a crystal glass containing golden wine in one hand, which he swirled gently as he read.
The High Lord of Day looked up with a start, sloshing his glass as he did so. “Vanserra,” he said with immediately distrusting eyes. “What is this? How did you get in here?”
Lucien looked right into his father’s golden eyes, watching him take in Lucien's changed appearance; the lack of scars, the golden eye that was now so like Helion's own, the slight glow he had stopped hiding somewhere in the Dawn mountains. He did not bow. Instead, he released more of his light, light that he used to lock up tight. And as the purest sunlight filled the room- bouncing off the mirrors on the wall, making the crystal glass in Helion's hand sparkle - Lucien simply said, “I’ve come home.”
Helion’s jaw slackened as he stared in shock.