Lay All Your Love On Me 🌺
Rating: Mature -> Explicit (rated E)
Pairings: Elain x Lucien, Gwyn x Azriel, Nesta x Eris, Jurian x Vassa, Thea Archeron (OC) x Marcus of Summer (OC) + more unhinged crackship pairings
POVs: Elain, Lucien, Thea, Nesta, Eris, Gwyn, Azriel, Vassa
Status: WIP
Chapter count: 7/?
AO3: Lay All Your Love On Me
Tag list: @hisnameislucien @themadmorrigan @limeandorange @musty-old-claptrap @frostystarlight (please shout if you want on or off)
Credits: @limeandorange for the stunning new banner!! 🥹 thank you so much!!
Chapters so far if you want to catch up:
Interlude — The Day Before You Came
Interlude — Why Did It Have To Be Me?
Chiquitita, Tell Me What’s Wrong?
Drinking with Cresseida was usually a quiet affair. Whenever they met at various diplomatic dinners, they’d have a few sweet cocktails with a pleasant meal and catch up on gossip old and new. Tonight’s dinner was more of the same, though the temptation to bring up the wedding, or enquire after Elain itched at her. Thankfully, Jurian arrived before she could, claiming there were much better places to go.
He was perhaps the only person on Nesta’s old diplomatic staff that was capable enough to replace her, but knowing he could actually do the job to her standards didn’t quell the envy in her chest. Especially as he recounted his last few missions—trade disputes between Dawn and Day, Spring finally back on its feet after a century of infighting, Autumn and Winter reexamining their borders. Dull to most, thrilling to Nesta—and oh did she miss it.
“You have a stressful few days ahead of you,” Cresseida said, after a solid hour of filling Nesta in on the last two years of Summer Court gossip, “and I agree with Jurian, the Pearl Quarter is a little too stuffy for the kind of fun you need.”
“And what kind of fun would that be?” Nesta asked. “You have a line of suitors waiting to flirt with you, Cress, and I am perfectly content here.” Kind of, she added silently.
The princess of Summer, however, was always a rebellious thorn in her steady brother’s side—seemingly never running out of ways to piss him off, usually in the form of the males and females she brought back to the palace.
She never had any trouble finding company, but for the first time in Nesta’s memory, she ignored every person brave enough to approach her.
As another pretty female brushed past their table to catch a glimpse of her, Cressieda shifted in her seat.
“Perhaps we could venture to Oceanside? You’re more likely to find someone to give you some… release…?”
Nesta could feel the heat rise in her cheeks, quickly grabbing her glass to sip fervently at her cocktail. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
“Even if a certain flame-haired male walked past us tonight?”
“How many of those have you had?” Nesta asked, fighting the urge to laugh at her. She did a quick mental tally of the rounds of rum and coconut cocktails they’d racked up all afternoon and evening.
Hell, how many have I had?
“Wait, which flame-haired male?” Jurian asked, a silent observer, save for the sounds of mouthfuls of stout and the scoffing of his seafood roll.
“Gods are all males really this clueless?” Cresseida groaned.
“I know a lot of red-heads!” Jurian said in his defence, eyes lighting up with excitement. “Including but not limited to the healer fixing my shoulder.”
“Of all the red-heads you know, that’s who you choose to single out?” Cresseida asked, raising a brow in inquisition.
Jurian shrugged his good shoulder. “I can list more if you’d like me to?”
“And there we have it,” Cresseida said with an exasperated sigh.
“You’ve been spending too much time with Tamlin,” Nesta said, shaking her head. “He’s hopeless with females and it’s rubbing off on you.”
“Oh he’s not hopeless,” Jurian said with a mocking grin as he took another mouthful of his drink.
“What do you mean?” Nesta asked, looking over at Jurian. “He’s seeing someone?” As far as Nesta knew, her former High Lord hadn’t pursued anyone since Feyre left him all those years ago.
He grinned, with that self-satisfied smirk that lived on his lips at all times. “Not just someone,” he said, as his eyes darted to Cresseida who looked murderous.
“He told you?” Cresseida didn’t even look at Nesta, as all her ire focused solely on Jurian.
“It’s true?!” Nesta couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“You can’t tell anyone! Tarquin will go mad if he finds out.” The princess covered her face with her palms. Considering that had never stopped her before, her friend had to be serious.
Nesta pulled her lips together and nodded. She was shocked, as she always assumed they hated each other, and this was quite the development. “Is that why you always insisted on going to Spring?”
“She still does,” Jurian confirmed, momentarily reminding Nesta about all she’d given up.
Cressida nodded, sheepishly brushing her endless silver braids to one shoulder. “Ten years is a long time,” she mused.
“A decade?! Why didn’t you tell me?” Nesta asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Well, I would have, but it’s not something I could say in a letter…”
“And Tarquin won’t let you go to Night,” Nesta finished for her. Her heart wrenched at the thought, taking Cresseida’s warm, manicured hand in her own.
Before Cresseida could say anything further, Jurian interrupted her. “And for the record, he didn’t tell me. I saw you both in the Garden…”
“Mother’s tits—do not finish that sentence! How many more people know?” she cursed, slapping her free hand up to her forehead. In all their decades of friendship, Nesta had never seen her friend so worked up, so… bashful?
“The Rose Garden?!” Nesta scoffed. “I’ve had tea with both of you in that garden!”
Taking another big swig of her cocktail, Cresseida groaned, “That’s the last time I play truth or dare with him.”
Jurian cringed, knotting his brows together in discomfort and Nesta couldn’t help but laugh.
Though never one to miss an opportunity to make Nesta squirm, Cresseida returned her attention to her. “But if we’re spilling secrets—”
“And that’s enough of that,” she raised a hand to halt the princess, thinking she really should have played this more tactfully.
Jurian turned and asked, with his usual shit-eating grin, “Well now you have to tell me who this flame-haired male is…”
And then, as if his words had summoned him—
“Eris!” Cresseida exclaimed.
“Eris?” Nesta repeated, only a hair quieter, trying not to sound too surprised as he met her gaze.
From the wide-eyed grin on Jurian’s face, he’d figured it out. Though it wouldn’t take an expert to from the way Nesta flushed.
Eris Vanserra was handsome. It was an undeniable, objective fact. But something about him against the violet Adriata sky made him look… different.
The low glow of the August evening made the copper and gold threads in his hair shimmer, the flecks of chocolate in his amber eyes richer. His cheeks were even a little flushed from the heat. He wore a billowing white shirt, loose around the collar, no jacket or waistcoat. He appeared laidback, relaxed.
She rather liked this version of him.
When he stole Cresseida away to get drinks, Jurian immediately snapped his head back to her. “Please tell me you haven’t been pining for the High Lord of Autumn?”
“You’re blushing—actually blushing like a maiden right now.”
“It’s warm and humid,” Nesta dismissed him, brushing a loose tendril of hair from her forehead.
“And you have the hots for Eris,” he said. “I owe Finbarr Vanserra fifty marks.”
A burst of pure, shocked laughter escaped from her throat at the mention of Eris’ brother. “You were betting on this?”
“Finn always had a hunch about you two. I didn’t believe him,” he glanced back at Eris, “until now.”
Eris returned to the table, a new round in hand with a grinning Cresseida. Nesta dreaded to think of what her so-called friend had said to make Eris’ flush deepen further.
“So, tell me, High Lord,” Nesta asked, knowing that the slur in her voice had abruptly halted the conversation Eris was holding with her, “things must truly be dull in Autumn if you’ve been dragged away for a wedding of all things.”
He cocked his head to the side, and leant in ever so slightly next to her. “Things in Autumn are always dull, and I’m sure things in Night are much the same,” he said, droll as ever.
They caught up with each other on the latest goings-on, for how long she didn’t know, though Nesta hadn’t realised that Jurian had wandered off, or when Cresseida had disappeared.
Nor did she notice the gradual lessening of bodies, tables tucked neatly under tables, glasses and plates quietly cleared away by waiters.
Eris seemed to though, when he looked around the empty courtyard, and let his gaze settle back on her.
“My guards are around, if you’re worried for your safety,” he said softly. “They’re good at staying hidden.”
Nesta resisted the urge to follow his line of sight, as if looking away from him would shatter her resolve. “Well, I should hope the High Lord of Autumn would be able to keep a defenceless damsel like me safe from predators,” she said, taking a sip of her drink.
“Oh, I would. But you are no damsel, Nesta Archeron.” His face moved nearer to her, so much that she could smell the spiced rum still his breath. Feel the heat that swam beneath his skin. All of him so achingly close.
“And you are no saviour, Eris Vanserra.”
That hard-held resolve was wearing thin, minute by minute.
He had filled the empty seat beside her when he arrived, and stayed there. But now that friendly distance had closed. When? She couldn’t recall—the increasing proximity as natural as breathing. Only inches of hot air stood between them, shaking with humidity… or something else entirely.
His arm had moved on to the back of her chair at some point during the evening too. Even her hand on the table lay so near his. If she moved a muscle, she’d be touching him.
Close. Dangerously close.
If he dared to touch her, she felt like she might combust. His eyes lowered to her lips, then tore them back to hers.
Any patience Nesta had remaining left like ashes on the wind. She tugged at the collar of his waistcoat, and pulled his mouth to hers.
Sweet, smoky and soft—Eris leaned in to her. His hands immediately found her neck, burying themselves in the hair she so rarely wore down. If she wasn’t careful, she’d let him take her right there on the table.
She made herself pull away, desperate to see his reaction. The fire that blazed in those amber eyes made her regret that.
“Gods Nesta,” he panted, as if she’d stolen all the air from his lungs, “Aren’t you still—?”
“Stop talking,” she rasped back, and kissed him once more.
The next thing she knew, they were back in the Coralstone Palace. He must have winnowed her there.
“They can walk,” he replied—low and husky against her lips as he kissed. The shift in his scent filled every crevice of her being, lighting every nerve ending like a flint striker.
Hands with fire in their fingertips roved over the cursed dress she wore. Even through the thin material, she could feel him—the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips and backside. Gentle, firm, certain—a hair’s breadth from claiming.
When they finally broke apart, she glanced around the suite of rooms designated to the Night Court. Mercifully empty.
Eris resumed the kiss immediately, pushing his full weight against her towards the antechamber door. The heat in her body was maddening, that rush of arousal between her thighs making her lose all sense of herself.
But as she reached for his waistband, desperate to untuck that shirt and burn it to cinders, he pulled away again.
“I can’t do this,” he took a step back, adjusting the very clear evidence he was as aroused as she was.
As a sudden jolt of shame ran down her spine, Nesta shut her lips. She placed her fingers over them—swollen and hot to the touch.
“You deserve more than this. Better than this—I’m sorry, Nesta.”
She straightened, unsure of what she could say, what she could do. “Did I—”
“Gods, no. You were—you are perfect. It’s me. I—”
He was completely undone, in a way he’d never even hinted at in front of Nesta. But something about that vulnerability set her aflame. Seeing him so rattled, because of her?
Their eyes locked again. As if he couldn’t resist it any longer, he pressed one, final, tender kiss to her lips, and she let him. The fire between them still burning, but calmer this time.
The sensation lingered, even when his lips pulled away, his forehead resting on hers, and his eyes flicking between hers. “I have to go,” he breathed, taking a step back. “Goodnight, Nesta.”
As Eris winnowed away, Nesta remained locked in place, staring at the spot where he stood, eyes wide in disbelief. She chanced a finger to her lips again, to check she hadn’t dreamt the whole thing. Her heart thundered at the realisation, at the tension in her body that would not relent.
His mouth held decades of desire, all focused entirely upon her. Nesta leaned into it before she could think better of it—before her meticulously-built walls could rise. But just as quickly as it had begun, he pulled back, and she could almost see walls rising up in him. And for a flicker of a moment—she felt foolish. Like she actually had imagined it. Like she’d overstepped. Like she was the only one who’d wanted it.
But the truth shoved aside her lingering doubt, steady and undeniable. Achingly clear at last. She hadn’t imagined it—not a single moment of it. Not when they’d first met. And certainly not now.
Not the way he had looked at her all those years ago, when she stood silently beside Tomas, dressed like a prize and spoken to like a burden.
Not the way the world had tilted beneath her feet when they danced at Feyre’s wedding, and she realised—with sudden, breathless clarity—that he had seen her. Not as an object. Not as a conquest.
Not since the slow, careful conversations that followed—moments caught in corridors, barbs traded at council tables, teasing over candle-lit banquet tables.
Decades of orbiting bodies had finally collided, leaving clarity and chaos in their wake.
The High Lord of Autumn had kissed her. Eris wanted her.
And Cauldron boil her, she wanted him too.
“You can and you will,” Vassa said, using her signature healer’s tone, stern but not too harsh. “Your shoulder won’t heal properly if you don’t rebuild the muscle you’ve lost.”
Through gritted teeth, and groaning pain, the Lord had been visiting the Torre three times a week for magical healing and physical therapy for just over a month, after a bad fall from his horse had left him with a broken arm, shoulder and two cracked ribs. As a half-human, half-fae, his healing abilities were far slower than Vassa was used to.
“Easy for you to say,” he murmured from the chair he was in.
The grumpy Spring male was Vassa’s last patient before her mid-morning rounds, and as usual he was annoyingly on-time.
“Yes, easy for me to say. I am the healer and you are the patient,” Vassa replied.
“Shouldn’t this have healed by now?”
“Lord Hawthorne,” she started, ready to reprimand his impatience.
“Please, Jurian is fine,” he corrected. Had insisted on it every single time she tried to address him formally.
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and willed them to focus as he rotated the shoulder one last time.
He groaned, and shut his eyes as every rippling muscle in his arm, back and shoulder tightened with the movement, but he did it. Glistening with sweat in the mid-morning heat, he’d removed his cotton shirt at some point during his exercises, and though Vassa remained the consummate professional from start to finish, she may or may not have let her gaze linger on his torso a little longer than she’d needed to. He was a prick, yes, but Vassa rarely had handsome patients.
“Very good,” she said, softening her tone slightly. “Another week or so, and you can go back to sparring, or whatever it is you do,” she said, a little more dismissively than she’d intended. Vassa was usually talkative with her patients, but he was a trickier puzzle to decode. A decent conversationalist with a handsome smile, but stained with stubborn pride.
“I actually do have work and duties awaiting me, so the faster you heal me, the quicker I can get back to it, and out of your hair.”
“And yet you linger here in Summer and don’t do the exercises I assign you.”
“How could you possibly know that?” he asked with an empty laugh.
“Jurian,” he corrected again.
“Fine, Jurian,” she repeated, though the intimacy of using his first name felt alien to her tongue. “I told you when we started that I would always be able to tell if you hadn’t been moving that arm.”
Placing warm healing hands on his shoulder, his own skin hot from all the strain he’d put on it, and let her magic assess the progress he’d made, and all that he hadn’t.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were stalling.” She raised her brows without opening her eyes, though she’d committed enough of him to memory to picture what his response would look like. Lip curled up in annoyance, teeth gritted.
“Stalling? Why would I keep enduring this level of pain?” He asked, using his other hand to rub the affected shoulder opposite.
Glass vials clinked against each other as Vassa rifled through them, though she knew exactly what she was looking for, and didn’t need to look for as long as she did.
“Because being here means you can lap up the attention of the healers and patients who flirt with you.”
He scoffed. “If I didn’t know any better,” he said, and she could hear the grin on his face. “I’d say you were deliberately elongating this process to keep me here.”
She whirled round. “Have you taken too much of that pain tonic I gave you? You seem to have misunderstood the dosage instructions.”
The lordling relaxed in his chair, still shirtless. She’d have to help him put it back on, so before he had the chance to say something about that, she handed it to him.
“No, simply an observation,” Jurian said, tone lazy and amused. “Baz tore a muscle in his wing, yet he only had to stay for two weeks.”
Vassa knew who he meant—sharp-featured and a model patient, the emissary’s friend who had referred him to her. The tear to his wing had been small but stubborn. Illyrian wings were unlike any she’d worked on before, so she’d spent long hours beside a healer from the Night Court, learning the rhythms of tendon, bone, and flight.
Balthazar’s healing had been difficult, but at least he’d followed instructions.
“That’s because Captain Balthazar,”—careful to use his title—“actually did the exercises,” she said smoothly, not quite looking at Jurian. “You know, the thing you’re meant to do to heal yourself?”
There was a beat of silence. She could almost feel his eyes on her—always too direct, always a little too warm.
“Mm,” he hummed. “Maybe I just needed better motivation.”
Vassa didn’t smile, though her lips threatened to curl upward and her hands paused in their work for a moment longer than they needed to before she moved on.
Jurian rolled his warm-brown eyes, framed by exceptionally dark, thick lashes.
“Fine, fine. I’ll do the exercises,” he relented, wriggling his shirt back on with theatrical reluctance. Vassa steadied his arm as he moved—the weight of it still surprising. Lighter than the career guards she was used to treating—no heavy-set bulk or brute force—but firm. His strength was lean, tightly held—the kind honed by discipline, agility, and hours of physical training.
A diplomat, yes, but one who clearly had no intention of letting his body fall idle.
“Same time on Sunday?” Jurian asked, pushing himself up with both arms and wincing at the pain.
Vassa frowned but held back a comment. “You’ll be seeing my colleague Clare—I’m taking a few personal days.”
“For the wedding?” he guessed.
She nodded, picking up her notes and scribbling down a summary of their session. She kept her tone flat with a simple: “Yes.” Lest she stir his curiosity further
“Then I’ll probably see you there.”
The graphite stylus stilled in on the page.
“And why’s that?” she asked, still not looking up from her notes, quickly resuming her summary.
“My High Lord doesn’t do parties,” she could hear the smirk in his voice. “Spring needs someone to show face—plus, if things get rowdy, someone’s got to be there to protect you.”
Vassa ignored the implication. “Rowdy? It’s a wedding, not a sporting match.”
He gave her a lazy half-shrug, a movement he was used to giving, but still hindered by his shoulder. “Give the elite an open bar and see how quickly secrets and gossip bring Courts to their knees.”
Vassa cringed at the idea. Thea would be mortified if anything went wrong this weekend—and it might just send Elain into a spiral she wouldn’t recover from. If it did, she might just break her oath to do no harm, and start cracking skulls—starting with High Lords.
“Well, for your sake, I hope that arm’s healed enough to prevent any diplomatic incidents.” She handed him a vial of pain relief. “Twice a day with food. Just enough to keep you moving—not enough to make you think you’re invincible.”
His usual grin softened for a moment. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it. “See you Sunday?”
Her answering laugh was dry, but genuine. “Maybe. Though if I run into any over-refreshed dignitaries, I know exactly who not to call.”
He smirked again, dipped his chin in farewell, and left.
Vassa continued on with her morning rounds, and tried to ready herself for the upcoming weekend.
Ordinarily, it would have been the same as usual—dinner and drinks with Elain and Gwyn, flirting with a male or two, and spending an unimpressive night in a bed that wasn’t hers.
Vassa had nothing else to go on these days. Apart from her treasured friendships, Vassa still craved companionship, and though she would never admit it—she missed her family desperately. Her parents still lived in Scythia, and she had left them to join the famed Torre healers, even when they had balked at the idea.
Her healing gift—passed down from her mother’s mother—was rare, and her parents wanted her to stay in the village she’d grown up in. And for a while, that was enough. Until she met a Torre healer in passing, and felt compelled to follow in her footsteps.
She wanted to see and do and give more with her healing abilities, learn from the very best in the world and teach others too. While there was undeniable nobility in healing her friends and neighbours, Vassa knew war was coming with news of the Hybern rebellion, and jumped at the chance to go. So Vassa took the first ship to Prythian, leaving only a note saying she would be heading to Adriata’s Torre.
When she arrived, she was given a choice by the Healer on High—join the Healer’s quadrant of the Prythian Brigade and sail to Hybern’s battlefields, or to stay in Adriata to welcome any refugees. Vassa was ambitious, yes, but she did not think herself brave enough to enter into an active war zone, so she stayed. It turned out to be the right choice, as both Gwyn and Elain arrived at the Torre within a few weeks of Vassa’s initial training period.
And while she had certainly not wanted her parents to follow her here and drag her home, she expected an attempt to coax her back. She was met with silence from them that spoke volumes. Silence that continued almost thirty years later.
As she tidied her office, Vassa pondered on the weekend ahead, and readied herself to be Elain’s guard dog should she need it. Between the lunch with Thea’s in-laws and the bachelorette party; the wedding itself seemed to be the least of her problems. She was actually looking forward to that part.
Her friend’s estranged sisters, Elain claimed, were not the types to let a fight go unchallenged. Though she hoped they would at least be cordial with each other, Vassa would happily step in to defend her friend, and Thea, should things get bad enough.
But even the thought of doing so made her tired.
Tired and bone-weary were Vassa’s usual states of being—her healing gift took its daily toll on her, and it was all she could do not to turn down Elain’s requests for company today. But being there for Elain, for Thea, was a non-negotiable.
Every time Vassa saw Thea’s bright, beaming face—blood in her rosy cheeks and air in her precious lungs—she’d say a silent prayer of thanks to the Mother. The memory of that awful, world-ending moment. Of the sheer panic Vassa felt as she held a lifeless babe in her arms, expecting that wail to come at any moment, until it simply didn’t.
Steady breathing, calmed nerves. Vassa recalled all her physician’s training in that moment. Magic could heal cuts and bruises, reset broken bones, remove growths and lumps before they had the chance to spread. But lungs that couldn’t breath on their own, or a heart that wouldn’t beat? Vassa’s hands were all she had—and she put every ounce of herself into those hands to bring Thea back to life.
So yes, Vassa was exhausted. But for the light in Elain’s eyes, cradling that baby… for the quiet in Gwyn’s face as it all settled—she’d carry the weight a hundred times over. She would gladly shoulder any burden for any of them, no matter the emotional or physical cost.
So when she walked into Elain’s kitchen to see her crying on the floor, snotty and red from unrelenting sadness, it wasn’t a question of why or what had caused it. It was sitting on the floor with her, and a moment later, Gwyn, to see her through it.
When the tears finally stopped, Elain took a shuddering breath in. Vassa gave a pointed look to Gwyn: Don’t say anything. Let her tell us.
“It’s her father,” Elain rasped.
Gwyn looked at Vassa, as if she would know how to respond to that statement.
“Who’s father?” Vassa asked, already suspecting the answer.
Elain swallowed, and wiped the tears that had slipped down her cheeks. “Thea’s father.”
“He’s here? In Adriata?” Gwyn asked.
Elain nodded, staring out at the empty kitchen, not looking at either of them. “On Ischia.”
“Well.” Vassa looked at Gwyn again, placing a comforting hand on Elain’s shoulder, brushing past the wild, unbrushed curls. “That’s a good thing, right?”
She shook her head, as tears threatened to fall again. She looked up at the ceiling. “No, it’s terrible, actually.”
“Elain, you said you had a good experience?” Vassa asked, knowing Elain had already shared this information with Gwyn.
Elain nodded, and squeezed her eyes shut. “They were good experiences.”
Gwyn blinked. “Wait, experiences? Plural?”
Elain took another deep breath, and before Vassa could tell Gwyn to handle this more delicately, Elain spoke. “I always thought it was Lucien. Lucien who had to go home and overthrow his father, Lucien who was a prince of Autumn, Lucien who was betrothed to someone else…” she trailed off.
“Sorry, as in the seventh son of Autumn, Lucien Vanserra?” Gwyn asked, of course her mother had mentioned him in a recent letter.
Elain nodded, burying her head on her folded knees.
“But…?” Vassa asked, trying to coax the next bit of information out of her friend.
“But I’m not actually sure,” Elain said softly, a blush creeping onto her already flushed face. Gwyn and Vassa looked over at each other once more. “Because there were two others around the same time.”
Though Vassa’s healer training had placed importance on handling issues like this sensitively, she couldn’t help the snicker that burst from her throat.
“It’s not funny,” Elain glared at Vassa, until her own laughter escaped, filling the room. The three of them were near breathless from giggling.
“Why didn’t you tell us Elain? We would have understood, and we’d never judge you,” Vassa said, taking Elain’s hand in her own as her chest eased from the laughter.
Elain let out a final, empty chuckle. “I never thought I’d have to—I’ve dodged the questions from Thea all her life,” she said. “I never ever thought I’d see all three of them standing in my pigsty on the eve of her wedding,” she sniffed, wiping her nose with her forearm, clutching a handkerchief pulled from her pocket.
Vassa only had to glance at the priestess to know Gwyn’s train of thought was heading in the same direction as her own.
They wordlessly shot up from the floor and darted to the old building, desperate to see the three mysterious males.
She skidded to a halt, seeing the crumbled wall and no one standing inside it.
“There’s no one here, Elain?” Gwyn asked as Elain caught up to them.
“They’re gone?” she asked, her tone half-relieved, half-curious.
“Do you see three handsome males standing in the rubble, Gwyn?” Vassa asked, surveying the decrepit annexe.
“How do you know they’re handsome?” Elain asked with a scoff.
Vassa only raised a brow. “I don’t, but since you’re gorgeous, and Thea is stunning, I think it’s safe to assume her father is too.”
She rolled her eyes, and stepped back into the annexe.
“They were all here, in the flesh,” she grimaced, and pointed to the floor. “Lucien Vanserra.”
Elain pointed to the crate. “Graysen Nolan.”
She turned to the window, and sighed, “And Azriel the Animal.”
“The Animal?” Vassa grinned. “Oh now I have to meet them.”
Elain went scarlet. “Well, with any luck, they’ve gone back to the boat, and hopefully it will capsize.”
Gwyn frowned. “Elain, that’s terrible!”
Elain stopped. “I just… I cannot believe they’re all here. I need this weekend to be perfect for Thea, gods her in-laws are coming here for lunch.”
“We know, and we’ll help. Tell us what we can do?” Vassa asked, taking Elain’s hand once more.
She smiled, a soft sad one, but a smile at least. “Just make sure Thea doesn’t find out. She will be mortified.”
“Elain, you don’t know that—she might be delighted,” Gwyn said.
Elain shook her head, “No. She cannot know.”
“Do they know about Thea?” Vassa asked, wondering how on earth Elain kept this to herself for so long.
“They know the wedding is happening, but I don’t think they know it’s Thea’s,” Elain said, hands wringing. “She stayed with Shaniece last night, so thankfully she doesn’t know about any of this.”
“Okay, that’s good,” Vassa said with affirmation. “They’re gone now, and it’s all over.”
Elain warily nodded her head, but stared back into the annexe, as if she didn’t quite believe it.
“It will all be fine.” Gwyn put a reassuring hand on Elain’s shoulder, and said, “Let’s start setting up for later, huh?”
Elain nodded, and padded back to the kitchen to start her preparations for lunch.
Gwyn followed her in, but turned to give Vassa a final nod, hoping that whatever situation was unfolding here, they’d be able to contain it between them.
Nothing could have prepared Lucien for seeing the young female who approached them as they waited outside the guesthouse for a sign of life.
Everything about her echoed Elain—her fawn-brown eyes, her bright smile; even her hair was the same colour. The sight made something pull at his chest.
He couldn’t determine any features other than Elain’s—whoever her father was, he must have looked similar, or nature simply preferred Elain’s appearance over his.
Thea Archeron was the image of her mother, and he would have simply settled for that. But then Elain herself appeared before him—and all those old feelings came rushing back. As bright and bold and wonderful as the moment he first felt them, standing on that balcony in Dawn…
Gods help him, it was like the years had never passed at all. Twenty-eight years collapsed into a heartbeat.
Naturally, she was not impressed to see him, or the other males gathered—if her frantic and ruffled appearance was anything to go by.
Thea may have been her double, but Elain was undoubtedly still Elain.
Hair still like spun gold, eyes like molten chocolate, full rose-pink lips. Those curls still wild around her temples in the humid heat. More freckles from all the time spent in the Ischian sun, and life in her eyes that simply wasn’t there almost three years earlier.
She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Still as beautiful as the day he left.
Cauldron boil and fry him—he’d been such an utter fool to let her go, and more foolish still not to chase her.
The awkward silence between him, Graysen and Azriel lingered as they congregated on the former’s boat. Azriel was the first to break it.
“So, that was a disaster,” the shadowsinger huffed, collapsing onto a hammock on the deck.
Graysen, leaning over the railing, looked amused. “I think it went rather well,” he said smiling to himself.
“I’m fairly sure she wanted to murder me,” Lucien admitted.
“I noticed that,” Azriel said with his brows raised. “I gather things between you didn’t end well?”
Lucien shot him a look that didn’t hide his annoyance, “I thought you weren’t interested in gossip?”
“So it’s gossip-worthy?” he asked with a raised brow.
“It’s none-of-your-fucking-business-worthy,” Lucien bit out, embers sparking at his fingertips, winds swirling at his back.
“Mother above,” he said with a groan, rolling his eyes. “Don’t get so defensive, it’s not like you’re mates.”
Lucien bristled. “No, we’re not.” His bitter disappointment sour in his mouth, and plain as day on his face.
Azriel turned to Graysen and asked, “She looked like she’d seen a ghost in you, Nolan?”
The merchant nodded. “I suppose she must have thought I’d died in Hybern,” he chuckled, light in comparison to the matter at hand. “Cauldron knows I almost did, many times.”
“That I believe,” Azriel said, though his features softened slightly. “Well done for making it out, though,” he said, voice carrying a note of quiet, but no less genuine respect. “I heard it was rough over there.” Nolan nodded in acknowledgment.
“You didn’t fight?” Lucien asked, wondering why an able-bodied male like him hadn’t joined the brigade. Lucien would have too, had Eris not forbade it.
“I was contracted out for another mission overseas, Prince of Autumn.”
Lucien ignored the barb, and Azriel continued, “I ended up staying there, then on to Rask for a couple of years, but a few of my soldiers did—Rhys allowed Illyrians to go if they wanted to but not many did.”
Graysen cleared his throat, as if he wanted to say something, but then stopped short. Odd, considering the male rarely shut up.
“And you?” Lucien asked Azriel. “She didn’t look too pleased to see you either,” he said, not hiding his smugness at being on equal footing with the Illyrian.
Azriel shrugged, and simply said, “She’s not the first, and she probably won’t be the last.”
Lucien wasn’t sure he wanted to know more than that, so didn’t pry further. He grabbed onto a hammock across the deck from Azriel, and made to lie in the sun for a while, when someone winnowed on to the deck.
“Thea?!” Lucien asked, bolting up. Gods, the girl could winnow? As far as he knew, Elain couldn’t—who had given her that power?
“I have no idea how I just did that,” she sputtered.
“You really wanted to be here,” Azriel said with a rare smile. “Your magic did the rest.”
“Is everything okay? Is Elain alright?” Lucien asked, trying and failing to hide his panic.
“Things are tense, but it’s alright. I’m alright, mum is… mum will be fine.” Thea took a tentative step forward, as if to test she’d really landed on solid ground. “I told you all to stay put, what happened?”
Graysen spoke first. “I’m afraid your mother found us, and she wasn’t pleased to see us.”
“You can say that again,” Azriel said, sitting up from his hammock. “Remind me why you thought it would be a good idea to invite us all here, Thea?”
“I thought I could surprise her,” she said to no one in particular. “You’re all old friends, right?”
Lucien didn’t need to look at either male to know that was a generous description.
As for him, friend didn’t even scratch the surface of what he and Elain were to each other. What she was to him.
Thea glanced quickly at him, as if she could tell what he was thinking. Whom he was thinking about. She blinked away to the other two, looking for something, anything to break the silence.
Feeling compelled to help her, he stepped forward. “I’m going to show these two idiots around the island, but my knowledge is rusty… we could use an expert tour guide?”
Thea’s answering smile stunned him. Its resemblance to Elain’s made something coil tightly around his heart, squeezing so hard it could burst right here on the deck. But Thea hesitated, shuffling a foot backwards.
“Can you get me back by lunch time?” she asked.
Graysen answered her: “One of us will winnow you home, you have my word. A promised guarantee with a kind smile.
“Then I would be delighted to show you around,” she said, flashing that dazzling smile again. It tugged at Lucien’s chest once more.
Using a skiff attached to the ship’s hull, they sailed around the island. Azriel continued to read, while Thea and Graysen chatted towards the back of the boat.
She mentioned the Hybern Rebellion, and had known Graysen had fought in it, to which he replied, “I’d hardly call what I did fighting,” somewhat ruefully.
Lucien then decided to stop eaves-dropping; war stories were difficult to share, and he wouldn’t encroach on their conversation further, though he was starting to wonder about Graysen’s connection to Elain.
As they sailed around the southern tip of the island, Lucien pointed out an old network of caves he’d explored in his youth, and Thea told him she’d always been too scared to go inside.
“Well, there are probably ancient monsters in there, but when you’re a young male with nothing to lose, the world doesn’t seem so scary.”
She smiled, and told him that she preferred to swim in the lagoons in the brush of the island. “It’s where I had my first kiss,” she admitted with a blush. “Don’t tell my mother that.”
Lucien smiled, honoured that she’d shared that with him. “Your secret’s safe with me, Thea.”
After an hour or so, they returned to the main ship, and Lucien decided to pull out his old sketchbook.
“You draw?” Thea asked, taking a look at the loose pages from the old book.
“I do, it helps me focus on what’s in front of me,” he said with a smile.
Thea chuckled. “How philosophical.”
She leafed through the old sketches until she saw something she recognised. “Is this…?” She held up a page with rough charcoal sketches she seemed to recognise.
“I drew them for your mother from memory, after I told her about this place—she didn’t believe me.”
“You drew Ischia for her?”
He nodded. “I promised to take her here, and we were ready to go, when my brother called me up to help overthrow our father.”
“I know. I read your letter.”
That damn letter. The letter that said everything and not enough. He chuckled to himself, a pitiful, empty thing.
“Your father must be the luckiest male alive,” Lucien said, wondering what Cauldron-blessed male had swept Elain off her feet after they’d parted.
Before Thea could respond, Azriel called her over, “Thea, what’s this?”
Jumping up with youthful enthusiasm, Thea jumped up and ran to the balcony to see what he meant.
“Starfish colony!” she shouted back. “I’ll come over and tell you about them.” She dove into the water below with such grace, and supposed a future Lady of Summer, mated to a future High Lord, would be more than comfortable at sea.
He watched her for a moment, before turning to Graysen still above deck. The male was staring at them both, at Azriel in particular.
The male was not the type he’d expect to join a foreign war, and his curiosity got the better of him.
Lucien couldn’t help but ask: “What made you join the Brigade?”
Graysen continued watching Azriel and Thea land on the shore, bracing himself against the ship’s railing.
“My father wanted me to marry a pretty Spring girl, learn the ropes and make him more money in the spice trade. He’s still hell-bent on the former.” He shuffled his feet. “I wanted to do anything I could think of to defy him, so I joined the Brigade.”
Lucien nodded, feeling a sudden kinship at the idea of disobeying one’s destiny, and urged him to continue.
“And when I got there, I met Balthazar. Baz was… supposed to be my enemy—Night and Spring and all that. But we of course found ourselves on the same side of the fight in Hybern. He challenged everything I knew about life. My life had been carved out for me from the moment I was born. The only son of a merchant family has one calling as far as my father was concerned.”
“I know the feeling,” Lucien replied. Even as only a seventh son of Autumn in name only, he understood.
“But Baz made me realise there could be more out there.” Lucien could tell where this was going, but it seemed like Graysen needed to say these words to someone other than himself. “Of course I still ended up back in Prythian, turns out I have the entrepreneurial knack, and made good connections with merchants over there—to my father’s delight.”
He paused, as if considering whether to voice what he was about to say. “But, I… loved him. I still do. And he saved my life so many times while we were out there.”
He nodded to Azriel, whose wings were splayed, and had jumped out of the water to show Thea how he could soar over the sea.
“Baz was an Illyrian, just like him.”
“Maybe he knows him?” Lucien asked, helping him cling to that hope.
“Perhaps. But I haven’t seen Baz in twenty-seven years. After our units got separated, I’ve never been able to find him. That, and I’ve been away from Prythian for almost as long.”
“Well, if anyone will know, it’s Azriel.”
“I’m not sure what I’d say if I ever saw him again,” Graysen murmured, wringing his hands.
“Maybe you don’t need to say anything,” Lucien mused. “You might just see him, and simply know.”
Though, Lucien’s own brain had turned to cinders when he saw Elain again after so long. Graysen seemed to realise that too, relaxing his clenched jaw to smile knowingly at him.
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, how does Elain fit in all this?” Lucien asked after a beat of silence, unable to curb his curiosity.
Graysen smiled to himself. “Well, before I left, I did have a genuine affection for Elain. We’d been friends for a long time, and I truly thought she was lovely—the prettiest female in Spring by miles. If I didn’t join the Brigade, I’d probably have asked her father to marry her. Many tried, but he had impossible standards.”
“But nothing.” Graysen shrugged. “We spent one night together before I went to fight in Hybern.”
Lucien almost coughed in shock, but bit it back. Graysen was earnest in his confession, and to laugh would have been grossly impolite. It was the last thing he expected the male to reveal.
He paused. “I did love her, or rather I thought I loved her,” Graysen said, looking over toward the guesthouse. “But I will always be grateful for her. And even now, all these years later, I’d do anything she asked of me.”
The heat of the midday sun beat down on Azriel’s shoulders, as he studied the island. He had to admit, it was beautiful, and Azriel had travelled far and wide in his life. Granted, sightseeing wasn’t high up on his usual agenda.
He hadn’t recovered his band since Feyre left, as many of them took up the fight in Hybern, and while he liked working alone, he did miss the camaraderie of his team. Ten whittled down to one over the course of a few months since they returned to Night all those years ago.
The verdant green of the island brush, in sharp contrast to the pale yellow, almost white sandy beaches; the aged leaves of the palm trees and the coconuts that hung from them–it was a lovely place. An almost-untouched paradise, so close to the bustling port of Adriata, and yet so cut off.
“Are the wings uncomfortable?” Thea asked, as she shook the spray of water from his wings.
She was full of questions, Azriel mused—first to Graysen, and then Lucien—making him wonder what the girl was trying to get at. In truth, he didn’t mind. Elain, too, had been a curious thing when they first met. Though she could blame faerie wine, and the questions stopped rather abruptly after enough of it.
“Your mother asked me that too, you know?”
That made her eyes light up. “And what did you tell her?”
Azriel’s answer at the time had been more suggestive, and he figured Thea didn’t need details like that about her own mother.
“They are part of me, like my legs or my arms. I’m used to them.”
She nodded. “And the shadows? What do they do?”
Azriel called them back, having skittered in the sunshine as he explained, “They warn me about certain dangers, tell me secrets,” he said with a half-smile.
Gods… it was hard to believe Elain had a grown daughter—mated and soon-to-be married, had it really been so long since he’d seen her?
“So, how did you meet my mum?” Thea asked, breaking the easy silence.
“We met at a wedding, my half-brother’s to your aunt,” he said, recalling the night they’d slept together. Things were… blurry. With most people drinking to celebrate, Azriel had been drinking to forget, and certainly didn’t remember much of the event. Other than pining for Mor, finding release with Elain, the rest were fragments he didn’t bother putting back together. “I was having a shit night, she made it less shit,” he admitted.
Thea furrowed her brows, clearly not impressed with that answer. Hoping for something better. Story of my life, Azriel thought.
Because the memory wasn’t romantic. Granted he hadn’t thought of her much in the proceeding years, as with all the other one-night stands he’d had. But he was still grateful to her.
“Your mum and I…” Gods, how could he put this delicately? “Your mum was a very good friend to me when I really needed one.”
She smiled then. Much better. Something about her, who looked so frighteningly like Elain, frowning at him like that gave Azriel pause. Shame, if he had to give that feeling a name.
“And I hope I was the same to her,” he added.
Thea nodded. “Do you know why she fell out with my aunts?”
Azriel shook his head. “Family drama isn’t really my thing. I make a habit out of not putting down roots and staying out of people’s business if I can help it.”
Thea gave him a sad smile, perhaps in understanding, “That’s fair.”
Part of him had wanted that. If Mor had ever given him the time of day, he’d have done it. Marriage, children—a life, a future. But it was nothing more than a mirage. As unlikely now as it had ever been. How could he have been so blind?
Shaking off the feeling, he turned back to Thea. “So, this Marcus fellow?”
She smiled to herself, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. “Mhmm?”
Her faux frown was answer enough, but she conceded, saying “I love him,” and turning her lips into a genuine smile. “And he loves me.”
Love. A rare and precious thing. Even to a self-confessed husk of a male like him.
“Well, make sure you get him to take you out of Summer for a while when you’re married. There’s more to life than the Coralstone Palace walls, you know?”
She nodded. “I’ll make sure of it,” she said. “Wait, what time is it?” She looked at the sun, and swore, “Fuck!”
She rolled her eyes. “Like you haven’t said worse?”
Archeron through and through.
“I need to go. Now. Shit!”
“You know the time just by looking at the sun?”
She nodded. “More or less. But I know I’m going to be late if we don’t leave now!”
He didn’t press, as his shadows took them back to the boat.
“Cauldron help me, I’m soaked to the bone—I can’t go to lunch like this!”
“Here, I can help,” Lucien stepped forward and with a wave of his hand, dried Thea’s hair and dress.
“Neat trick, Vanserra.” Azriel said, impressed at the skill.
“Autumn flames come in handy sometimes.” He looked at Thea, asking, “What’s so important about lunch?”
“Mum is hosting Marcus’ family there, and I cannot be late,” she said, pulling on her sandals.
“Well we’ll winnow you back,” Graysen said.
“I’ll take you,” Lucien offered. “I only need one jump.”
“My shadows can take us,” Azriel said, stepping forward as the onyx wisps danced around his shoulders.
“It’s not a competition, just drop me to the pigsty,” she directed to Lucien.
He nodded, and stepped forward, but Thea stopped him.
“Wait.” She regarded each of them, “I want you to go to the bachelor party tomorrow—it’ll be at the Palace, and my friend Shaniece can get you in. It’ll keep you away from mum for the night—before the wedding on Sunday?”
Azriel looked at Lucien, then Graysen. “I’ll go if they do,” Lucien said, though his shoulders rolled as if in deep discomfort at the idea, at odds with his answer.
Azriel sighed, and wanted to say no, but then he looked at Thea’s pleading brown eyes, and against his better judgment, agreed to go.
“But just for one drink, okay?” He pointed a warning finger, and Thea nodded enthusiastically. Graysen agreed to go too.
The last bachelor party Azriel attended in Adriata ended badly, and he’d like to avoid a repeat.
Lucien reached out a hand for Thea, and she took it gratefully. A moment later, they were gone.
He breathed a sigh of relief, still wondering what the hell he was doing here. He intended to go below deck and rest for a while out of the sun, when Graysen called his name.
He turned to face him, “Yes, Nolan?”
The male smiled, and something about him appeared uncharacteristically sheepish. “Do you know an Illyrian scout named Balthazar?”
