In the Middle of the Night

by Falon1224

Summary:

Lucien was tired of the hurt and emptiness inside his own heart. Taking one day at a time, with no true direction towards one court or another. His friendships in the Spring Court destroyed, a mating bond rejected, and few familiar faces he could confidently turn to for comfort.
A visit to the Dawn Court brings with it an almost forgotten acquaintance, one who is more willing to hear him out and offer help than he expects.
When rumors surface of an island nation north of Prythian and their extraordinary magic, it falls upon him and an unlikely accomplice to venture toward the unknown. Through dangerous waters and a fractured heart, he takes comfort in Rhiannon Alghari’s wisdom and tenacity as they seek to defy Fate and the Mother above.

Notes:

The chokehold this series has on me is ridiculous.

Chapter 1: Prologue: Under the Mountain

Summary:

Lucien was tired of the hurt and emptiness inside his own heart. Taking one day at a time, with no true direction towards one court or another. His friendships in the Spring Court destroyed, a mating bond rejected, and few familiar faces he could confidently turn to for comfort.
A visit to the Dawn Court brings with it an almost forgotten acquaintance, one who is more willing to hear him out and offer help than he expects.
When rumors surface of an island nation north of Prythian and their extraordinary magic, it falls upon him and an unlikely accomplice to venture toward the unknown. Through dangerous waters and a fractured heart, he takes comfort in Rhiannon Alghari’s wisdom and tenacity as they seek to defy Fate and the Mother above.

Notes:

The chokehold this little fuck-shit has on me is ridiculous.

Seasons were meaningless down here. 

Stuck beneath a once sacred space with the oppressive weight of ancient spells suppressing the collective magic floating in and out across the constricting area. In almost fifty years, the collective had long since come to terms with the notion of never seeing their magic returned to rightful owners—had accepted their respective places beneath the heel of a singular, silver-tongued witch.

The notion stung—High Fae were notoriously prideful across their extensive history. Knowing their fates were laid to rest upon a single High Lord’s shoulders so many years ago offered precious little in the way of comfort.

 

Some were hopeful: in the beginning of their blunder, it was the only solace some could find as they struggled within the confines of their new normal.

For Rhiannon Alghari, the transition from seasoned craftsman and teacher to little more than maintenance work was a shot to her pride over the past ten years. Decades she had spent learning all she could, absorbing as much information as she could from the libraries scattered across the territory, and from her own masters. Countless hours of passing on what she knew to vivid eyes and eager minds all seemed wasted in little more than the blink of an eye.

No one could have expected the curse—least of all the High Lords who had fallen prey to those honey-coated words. Believing the war, and the death of her sister, had changed her heart was a promise any empathetic heart would want. 

That was what she told herself each time she dragged herself to and from the alluring weight of sleep. 

As the years dragged, the hope slowly fizzled out: what self respecting High Lord would stoop so low as to bed a human girl? They all knew it was a fruitless journey, one that would only end with less lives then they initially began with. 

Yet,

 

It was that final drop of gleaming light from the palm of Rhysand’s hand that truly shot home as the human girl-now reborn fae-gasped for precious air in her High Lord’s arms. Hearing her sobs of relief, of pain, as she clung to Tamlin’s chest. 

Rhiannon could only find it within herself to stare, her callused fingers raking absently through long, raven black hair. That relief, a lightening within her soul it seemed, she had given up on now lay before the gathered courts in a pool of blood and tears. Silver threatened at the corners of her amber eyes, held back only by her own cynicism—something innate that waited on baited breath for the other shoe to drop. 

She refused to cry, not until she could see her home again, hear the rustle of forests surrounding the red-roofed village and the clatter of insomniac craftsmen beyond her windowpane. Until she could smell the unique blend of old parchment and citrus oil that lingered in her workshop, the tears could wait. 

Movement, subtle and almost imperceptible, drew her attention out to the corner of her eye. 

She half expected one of the handful of other craftsmen who had been imprisoned alongside her; few of her students were spineless enough to bow to the whims of anyone beyond their High Lord. How many of them were truly left, she could not say for certain. 

Yet, it was the mane of fire-red hair that caught her eye first. Standing an arm’s length away from her, Rhiannon could make out the details of panic and relief as the myriad of emotions passed over a golden, mechanical eye. A delicate, fox mask of equally brilliant gold sat heavy in a slender hand, revealing a vicious scar to anyone who might glance his way. 

Lucien was a familiar presence, despite how long it had been since her master, Nuan, had crafted that eye for him. Swallowing back the relief, she paused as her gaze slid across the throne room before them. 

No sign of his brothers, and his father seemed to pay him no mind as he turned away from the human girl. 

One less fight to worry about, she supposed. 

As Tamlin stood with his human, Lucien took tentative steps to their sides. Words exchanged quietly, yet she could not be bothered to discern them as the High Lords spread apart. 

 

“Master Alghari!” 

 

A young fae male, one she had only instructed twice before the curse, called out to her from across the throne room. He was shorter than her, his dark hair a mess of unruly brown curls that tickled his freckled face. Wide eyes of chocolate brown lit up the instant she caught his gaze, his smile mirrored with the same sense of relief she would not allow herself until they were home. 

His name however, she could not recall as she waved a tentative hand at him. 

Later, she told herself.

If she were to catch up with Lucien, it would not be today.

Certainly not after witnessing his friend and High Lord overcome something so gruesome. 

 

The time for pleasantries would come, eventually.

That was the true beauty of eternity. 

 

“Let’s go,”

 

Glancing back, she bowed low at the waist as Thesan strode wearily across the massive throne room. Sleepless nights shone in the bloodshot whites of his eyes, and the noticeable slump in his shoulders. 

 

“It’s really over?” Her voice trembled against the will of her mind, yet in her heart she willed for his affirmation. For that sense of security that, despite their hardships and losses, the senselessness of it all had finally come to a close. 

It was the steady rise and fall of his chest as Thesan sighed, his attention sweeping over the few gathered members of his court within the sea of unfamiliar faces. 

 

“Her reign is over. That, alone, is worth the breath of fresh air.”

Chapter 2: Chapter One: Present Day

Four years had passed since that day in The Middle, and nothing short of an oracle could have prepared the Courts and their High Lords for anything that would have come after Amarantha. None could have expected Hybern’s retaliation, or the collapse of the Spring Court shortly before the beginning of the war. 

Healing those wounds, both physical and emotional, had been taxing for everyone across Prythian. The Dawn Court was no exception: while some villages had escaped the brunt of war, and Amarantha, others were still in the process of picking up the pieces of scattered lives and marred remains. 

For Rhiannon and other craftsmen, the workload was near constant from sunrise to sunset. With architects busy with reconstructing homes and businesses, it fell to the craftsmen to assist their healers and repair anything from small knick-knacks to prosthetic limbs for the remaining fighters. 

Days had begun to blend together as she sat amoungst a maze of cluttered tables scattered throughout the bottom floor of her workshop. Memories were foggy the longer she stared at her scattered projects—the last one she remembered was a mangled prosthetic arm that one of her students had brought by to be returned to a distant relative in another court. 

She could not recall the last time she had left her table long enough to make the trek upstairs to her bed. Most days, her students would roust her from sleep by their movements around the workshop, or their idle chatter amoungst each other. 

Yet, it was not their voices or typical commotion that had her lurching upwards from her desk. Instead, it was the sharp, incessant knocking at her door that startled her back into the waking world.

Screws and stray pieces of copper clattered noisily to the hardwood floor of the workshop as she sat upright with an unconscious sense of urgency. To her left, a half finished bottle of wine sat precariously above a small pile of parts and a screwdriver she vaguely recalled losing earlier in the evening. 

The first few rays of golden dawn barely reached across the horizon beyond her east-facing window, leaving her blinking slowly against the faded memories. When she had fallen asleep, she could not say, nor could she discern precisely which project she had been in the middle of before drifting off into the weight of exhaustion. 

When the knock sounded again, Rhiannon heaved a heavy sigh and pushed out her chair. It was far too early for her students to arrive; even the most lively young fae were rarely up and ready for work before the sun breached the treeline. 

 

“Someone better be dying,” She grumbled under her breath as she swept a hand through her hair. Under better circumstances, she might have felt a pang of guilt for greeting a stranger in such a haggard state. 

Instead, she pushed herself up to stand and cross the massive workshop towards the source of her irritation. 

 

Standing beyond the threshold was a tall young man, dressed in familiar gold armor most would only see during a visit to the palace. She had seen him before, though they had never been properly introduced to one another. His name was never provided, yet that piece of rationale did not stop the nagging sense of embarrassment at the back of her mind as her thoughts scrambled for it. 

She straightened slightly, clearing her throat as she met his stern expression levelly. 

 

“Can I help you with something?” 

 

“I’m here to escort you to the palace: your presence was specifically requested this morning.” 

***

 

The High Lord’s palace was a massive structure built of vibrant stone that glimmered with a unique hue of gold beneath the morning sunrise. Vines of morning glories climbed skywards in rows of neat, periwinkle clusters around spiraling towers and high arched walkways. Their sweet scent filled the crisp air, steadying Rhiannon’s nerves as she ascended a particularly steep stairway leading further up the mountainside. 

In her arms, she held a stack of neatly clipped parchment—sketches of new designs and shop invoices from the past six weeks she felt was sufficient for a blind request. With no context for her unexpected visit, she could only assume it was business related. 

Since Amarantha’s reign, commerce guilds were formed and exchanged information with one another every so often. Speaking through letters and respective emissaries had eased some of the strain on old trade routes, and opened lines of communication between six of the seven courts. For the High Lords to take an interest in the profits and pitfalls within the commerce guilds, though not particularly concerning, was unusual in her experience. 

If they asked for the guild master’s reports at all, it was rarely more than once a year. 

 

As she ascended the final few steps, the corridor opened up into a wide open space stretching well beyond the cozy veranda to her immediate right. The sweet scent of morning glories faded into the crispness of the mountain breeze, wafting faintly through the crystal glass archway. 

Further beyond the veranda, Rhiannon found her way to the half open doorway the young man had specified upon their arrival several floors below. Taking a breath to steady her nerves, she knocked twice on the heavy oak door and slipped inside.

***

 

He should have declined this invitation—had told himself as much multiple times across their brief arrival within the Dawn. Through no fault of the territory or High Lord, he would have much rather found something else to occupy his time this particular day. 

The journey was not arduous; it took longer on horseback, yet offered breathtaking sights as one crossed from court to court. Winnowing was a quick way of getting around border patrols, yet did not prove to be any more difficult in the Night Court than it was in the Spring. Though he did not necessarily have strong emotions towards traveling as emissary, traveling with Rhysand he could have done without.

If not for Feyre’s insistence, he sincerely doubted his presence would have been required. It had been her idea, according to Rhys two days prior over a shared dinner amoungst them—even going so far as to delay the journey to the Dawn Court by several days to insure he would have returned from the human lands to join them. When questioned, Feyre had insisted it was nothing detrimental: merely that she felt spending time in Prythian again would do his heart some good. 

A snide remark from Rhys had him gritting his teeth, yet he could only nod in affirmation. Settling his friend’s worries far outweighed his general distaste for her mate. 

Standing in the meeting room, he found himself unusually silent as he stood aside from them. Typically, it fell upon the emissaries to do most of the talking, rather than the High Lords that occasionally attended their more dull meetings. He could only recall a handful of occasions in which Tamlin would chime in, much less make the journey to another court with him. 

Rhysand, it seemed, was rather content to converse with Thesan. Leaving him, much to his own annoyance, to wait at Feyre’s right. 

For what, he still could not say for certain. 

 

“If I may, we’ve prepared a small gift for you.” 

 

Thesan’s soft voice pulled him from his wandering thoughts in time to hear the sharp snap of his slender fingers. Pale yellow flashed above him as the tang of magic pricked at his senses, resting in pinpricks on his tongue. 

A small, quietly fluttering golden bird appeared in his open hand. No bigger than his palm, the mechanical creature stared upwards at them with innately realistic eyes that clicked and whirred as it studied them. Gold shimmered in the slow rising sunlight as it stretched its tiny wings and chittered almost noiselessly in Thesan’s hands. 

 

“Congratulations on the birth of your son. I understand it’s not much, but this should help soothe him on particularly restless nights.” 

 

Feyre’s pale eyes lit up with delight as the bird stretched its golden wings once more, then leapt off Thesan’s palm and into her waiting hands. Her full lips pulled upwards in a smile that seemed to ease any tension that she tried desperately to hide throughout the duration of their journey. 

It was agreed early on that leaving Nyx in the care of her sisters would be safer on his tiny body, rather than taking him halfway across the territory for this meeting. Resilient though he would one day be, on the off chance they would have run into old enemies it would have only put more stress on his parents. 

This was not to say that Feyre had not lost sleep over the idea of leaving her child behind. Rhys, too, had seemed rather weary from the notion; he was quite certain the pair would sooner winnow home to be with him than stand here a moment longer. 

Had he guessed that, he would have simply insisted they stay in Velaris. What good that would do, he could not have said for certain. 

 

“It’s perfect, more than we ever would have expected.” Feyre’s voice softened with awe as she touched a tattooed finger to the bird’s head. Finding its metal smoothly finished and warmed by the dawn, she watched as it preened shining feathers beneath her scrutiny. Then, she turned her attention once more to their host.

 

“Thank you for thinking of us. Nyx will adore it.”

 

“Nyx,” Thesan repeated the boy’s name, as though testing the sound of it on his voice for only a moment before turning his attention once more to Rhysand. A slow, almost knowing smile pulled across his handsome features as he raised a curious brow at him. 

 

“Somehow, that seems quite like you,”

 

It was all he could say before a sharp, resounding hand knocked over the parted doorway leading out into one of innumerable corridors scattered throughout the palace. Without waiting for Thesan to respond, a young woman stepped carefully around the door and shut it with a gentle hand against the brass doorknob. 

Standing at Feyre’s height, she carried herself with the same sense of pride he would have expected from any other High Fae across Prythian. Her peach coloured robes tightened around a muscled waistline, while still floating just above the smoothly finished floor. Standard clothing in the Dawn Court, however not at all practical in the workshops of craftsmen.

Her amber eyes swept across their gathered group, lingered only a moment too long on the bird in Feyre’s hands before she gently cleared her throat. 

 

“I’m sorry if I’m intruding; I was told that you wished to see me, my lord?” 

 

Unconsciously, she seemed to clutch her papers tighter to her chest, clearly not expecting an audience with anyone beyond her High Lord—certainly not anyone from outside the Dawn Court. 

Sensing her discomfort, Thesan gestured once to Feyre, who merely sighed gently in reply.

 

“I thought someone would have informed you why,” 

 

Straightening her back slightly, she cleared her throat.

 

“I was told that you studied under Nuan, and was… Well, I was hoping you might also be able to check my friend’s eye.”

 

Almost immediately, Lucien scowled in reply as he turned his attention once more to her. In the back of his mind, he knew he should have expected some ulterior motive—he had no other reason to accompany them on this venture of theirs, otherwise. 

Where he might have expected some guilt or embarrassment, she only met his gaze levelly as the bird found itself perched atop the exposed skin of her shoulder. Meddling, it seemed, would be one habit no amount of time in their world could diminish. 

 

“My eye? You’ve lost your mind, haven’t you?”

 

“What makes you think that? You haven’t had it checked since coming back from the continent, don’t machines have to be maintained?”

 

A reasonable question from a human’s perspective, he supposed. However, it was not at all accurate for their world. 

 

“That eye is one of Master Nuan’s best pieces; she put many long hours into crafting and enchanting that eye, it's not something that would break so easily.” 

He glanced once more at the woman as she tucked her papers securely beneath her arm. Rather than deter or ease her concerns, Feyre’s request sparked a fine line of irritation across her lips as she swept a glance across them once more. 

Sizing them up, or so it seemed to him. 

 

“Don’t be crass, Rhiannon,” Thesan mused easily, motioning towards her for Lucien, rather than accept their words for the truths. 

 

“It’s not an outlandish request, and should be quick enough to put their worries at ease. I don’t see the harm in it.” 

 

“I understand that, but-” 

 

He cut her off with a sharp glance, one that was every bit the High Lord he was expected to be, rather than the easy-going man he often portrayed to those around him. Dark eyes became ice as an elegant brow raised ever so slightly in silent question.

Rhiannon’s protest died on her tongue, her full lips pulled into a tight line as she bowed her head in acknowledgment. Arguing with him, or any other High Lord, would only waste their time and collective energy for no benefit to them. 

Slowly, she turned her attention from the High Lords to rest upon him once more. 

 

“Follow me, please. I’m not in the business of having an audience.”

 

It was a lie, of that he was certain: many of Nuan’s students went on to teach young craftsmen and alchemists alike over the years, and Rhiannon was certainly no exception to that line. In the handful of conversations he had with her, he recalled her expressed desires to teach and guide those willing minds in any way she could. Her passion for it was almost unmatched in her field, leaving an unmistakable impression on him by the end of their conversation. 

Despite this knowledge, he did not argue with her as he stepped away from Feyre’s side and followed her back into the waiting vacancy of the corridor. 

No sooner had the door shut behind her then a sigh of something akin to weariness and indignation slipped from her rose tinted lips. Dawn Court Fae were notoriously prideful with their crafts, everything from everyday household items to the more intricate enchantments were carefully designed and crafted: some pieces taking upwards of several centuries before their true completion. 

 

“Good seeing you, too.” He bit out a tad harsher than he initially intended. 

 

Fortunately, she seemed to take it well enough as she pushed herself away from the surface of the door and stepped further into the corridor. Gesturing with a quick nod of her head, she led him up another short flight of stairs to another, much smaller floor within the palace. 

The scent of flowers was stronger here as vines of morning glories wrapped in tight lines around the thick lines of columns decorating the open wall. At the end of the corridor, he found himself led into a large, circular room lined to bursting with cherry-wood bookshelves. The scent of almonds and citrus lingered faintly in the warm air, as the crack of wood logs in a large, black marble hearth greeted their entrance. 

Lucien allowed himself to be led to one of an identical pair of plush, burgundy loveseats, leaving her standing over him. 

 

“It’s short notice, so I don’t have all the tools I should-”

 

“It’s fine,” He interrupted with a simple shrug of his broad shoulders. There was no denying she was as annoyed at their outlandish request as he was—the least someone could have done was inform her of their intentions for bringing her away from her workshop and students. 

 

Rhiannon huffed, blowing aside an unruly lock of her dark hair as she tipped his head up with a gentle finer. Using her free hand, she flicked her wrist once and a small, pin-sized ball of faelight sprouted up from the tip of her finger. 

 

“Close your other eye, and follow the light for me.”

 

Slowly, she moved her arm in measured directions: stretching as far out as she could, pointing the faelight in her desired direction. Reaching out, or up towards the high arched ceiling, she kept her attention on the mechanical eye as metal dilated around a thin disc of glass as he followed her movements. It whirred softly, clicking almost silently beneath the comfortable weight of silence. 

Though she was involved in the creation of the eye, she knew her master’s work well enough to confidently note there was nothing drastically wrong. 

As she brought her finger level with his eye once more, she reached out and tapped playfully at the tender curve of his nose. 

Lucien blinked in surprise, lowering his head as he bit back a half-hearted laugh. 

 

“Your eye’s fine. It dilates more than it should, leading me to believe there might be a lens cracked somewhere. But if it isn’t bothering you, it’s nothing to worry about.”

 

Without another word, she took the open chair across from him and neatly folded her hands in her lap. 

 

“Want to tell me what happened to it, though?”

Lucien bit back a sigh as he swept a hand through his long, red hair. Knowing her, he doubted her question was completely about his eye; though they were not well acquainted, he recalled her knack for picking apart her client’s concerns and ability to listen to whatever woes they would bring to her workshop. In the back of his mind, he was not entirely certain where to begin with that particular question. 

The rumor mill, he was certain, had brought more than its fair share to her table following their escape from Under the Mountain. 

 

“You might want to brew some tea, if you’re willing to sit through that long-winded story.”

Chapter 3: Chapter Two

Notes:

I have no excuse for why this took so long other than I kept adding shit to it, and burnout from reality.

The tea, he realized absently, never came via servants or through Rhiannon’s own magic. Instead, she merely eased herself back into the plush cushions of her chair without so much as a breath of complaint. 

With no clear indication of her desired information, he began where he assumed would be quick enough. 

Lucien told her everything: from Feyre’s initial disappearance from the Spring Court leading up to the war with Hybern the previous year. Every roiling argument, heartbreak, and good-natured chuckle he recounted with an unhurried sense of calm as minutes lumbered by into the furthest reaches of the hour. 

She listened with rapt attention, making no moves to disguise her feelings as his own words became lost within the calm silence of their surroundings. Her expressions would shift: flowing from a mild annoyance as he regaled her with stories from his former home and High Lord to an unabashed intrigue when he described Velaris for her. Questions were few and far between, largely revolving around the small group of humans he had taken to conversing and collaborating with since the War. 

Rhiannon was, as far as he could recall, quite inadequate with hiding her true emotions. Everything would show on her slim face, pulling her neatly trimmed brows in a finely knitted scowl, or dimple her cheeks with each poorly hidden smile. 

By the end of his story, she had leaned back in her seat, her small hands neatly folded in her lap, as a noticeable frown darkened her features.

He cleared his throat, swallowing back the stinging sensation that always seemed to rear up with any length of talking.

 

“I do have one question: this priestess you spoke of, perhaps you know where she scurried off to?”

 

Lucien frowned, noting the icy smile that decorated her soft lips as a cruel sort of anger simmered beneath the amber gleam of her eyes. It was a look he knew well enough from his years at court, though not one he could recall ever marring her features in the handful of times they saw one another. 

 

“Funny you should mention that; no one has seen her since the war. I suspect she’s dead somewhere… If Feyre knows, she hasn’t told me, and I’m not exactly on the best speaking terms with Tamlin to ask him.”

 

Rhiannon huffed in an unabashed indignation; her shoulders raised in a half-hearted shrug as she pouted. She should not have been surprised, casualties in war were inevitable and it was often priestesses and innocents who would succumb to an enemy’s blade long before the invading soldiers. Though she had not directly participated in the war, every Court had buried enough friends and loved ones to feel the lasting effects of it for years to come.

Of course, given the reputation she had heard described, she sincerely doubted the priestess’s sisters and fellow students would feel too much of the loss within the walls of their sacred temples.

 

“Oh fine, you’re no fun, sometimes. I wanted to light a fire under her robes myself for her actions, but I suppose I can be content with a mysterious vanishing act and a crushed hand.”

 

Embarrassment mottled his cheeks as he lowered his gaze to his lap. A soft laugh vanished into the fire-warmed surroundings, a glimpse beyond the mask of indifference he had worn with his friend and her High Lord. 

Yet, Rhiannon gave pause as she studied him—something had changed in him since that final day in Amarantha’s throne room. She could not quite place what it was, nor where in his story it might have come from; only that she could sense the change in him the longer he spoke of his trials and adventures. 

She could, however, make an educated guess in this instance.

Clearing her throat, she swallowed against a thick, prickling knot of emotion she could not begin to identify.

 

“When you spoke of your friend’s sisters… You said the younger of the two was fated to you? Might I ask how you’re both settling into that, given everything that’s happened?”

 

To this, Lucien shrugged with a nonchalance he did not truly feel, his smile fading just as quickly as it had appeared a moment prior. Her question was not a surprise, rather it was a natural assumption for anyone who might have known him over the years to believe he would not have sat and settled with destiny in such a way. 

Defiance was as natural to him as breathing; it cost him friends, family, and an eye throughout his long life. 

Yet, this particular defiance stung—lancing across his heart the more he allowed himself to dwell upon the subject.

 

“We… I wouldn’t call it “settling”. Rather, the only thing we’ve truly settled into is mutually ignoring one another.”

 

Rhiannon frowned, in a way he supposed he could not fault her for such a reaction. Growing up, she would have heard the same stories and listened to the same songs praising the Mother and her gift of the mating bond. As adults, they knew better than to believe it was entirely for the betterment of the couple, rather than a more animalistic purpose. 

High Fae and Lesser Fae knew well enough that mating bonds were often wrought with their own misfortunes, and Fate did not have the consciousness to determine if the pairs were socially viable. All instinct cared for was breeding, continuing the species in as large a number as possible over the course of their long lives.

Of course, there was no denying the thrill of romance in the idea. He knew Fae across the territories who dreamt of finding their perfect match, as though they could already feel the void deep within their souls without their partner.

 

“I’m by no means an expert, but I would think ignoring each other does not constitute a happy household.”

 

Lucien released a slow, tired sigh as he relaxed back into his armchair. He neglected to inform her of the eldest sister’s feelings on the matter—there was still too much they did not understand about her and the terrifying abilities she now held at her beck-and-call. Though he was grateful for Rhiannon’s assistance, and the work her own master put into aiding him so many years ago, he was certainly not foolish enough to believe he could trust her with such complicated information off hand.

 

“You don’t know the half of it.”

 

Nor did she ever truly expect to hear the extent of his story.

For though she was not one of the few who found themselves venturing outside their territory often, she was certainly not sheltered enough to believe Lucien was not withholding some information from his tales.

She knew better than to pry, friendships could be easily destroyed with misplaced curiosity, and she valued what little remained of theirs to risk upsetting him.

Instead, Rhiannon sat back primly in her chair, her hands tightening within her lap as she regarded him with the same curious caution she sensed lingering about him. Perhaps it was not so much that he did not wish to reveal the information so much as it was that he did not quite understand it himself.

A stretch, she thought, however this was a tale unheard of in their half of the territory. In that respect, she supposed it was easier for their group, both human and fae, to accept what came their way and investigate it later.

Impractical, yet considerably less of a headache.

 

As the fire to smolder out, filling the room with the distinct fragrance of cedar and maple, she found herself struck by the weariness she had not immediately noticed in his sharp features. Of course, she told herself, this was to be expected: venturing from the human lands to the Night Court was no easy feat, regardless of his abilities to winnow back and forth.

His good eye seemed dull by comparison to the mechanical marvel of its counterpart, bloodshot around the inner corner with fitful nights of sleep.

In her own readings, she had heard brief reports of couples who sought to reject their bonds suffering physical affects from their decisions. Sleeplessness, bouts of anger at the other’s chosen partners—one lesser fae in their own court had murdered her mate’s mistress for merely looking at her the wrong way some two hundred years prior.

Lucien’s pride, she thought absently, no doubt suffered the worst.

 

Pushing herself to the edge of her seat, Rhiannon braced her hands on her knees and offered him a sympathetic smile.

 

“Might I ask how long you and your friends intend on staying?”

 

He shrugged curtly in reply as he brushed a hand through his long, auburn hair. That much neither Feyre nor Rhys deemed necessary to allude to, merely that it would not be long enough for his human companions to miss his presence or interfere with his work within the other Courts.

 

“Not long, I would imagine. If we stay at all, I suspect it would only be for a few hours.”

 

She nodded curtly, then reached across the empty space between them and gently patted the curve of his knee.

 

“That’s hardly optimal. Why don’t you rest here for a bit? I’m not going to claim I know your friends very well, but surely if I’ve noticed you’re exhausted, then they have as well.”

 

Lucien could only offer a nod in reply, he did not have the heart to contradict her words and tell her that, most likely neither of them, had taken notice since leaving Velaris. Rather, he found himself pleasantly at ease nestled within the comforting confines of his borrowed armchair as the crackle of wood split the quiet of the study.

 

“You’re such a mother-hen.”

 

“Stubborn fox.” She admonished as she pushed herself up to stand.

Rhiannon turned on her heel and snatched a heavy woolen throw blanket from a small pile stacked in between two of Thesan’s more slender bookcases. He half expected her to throw it at him, only to raise a curious brow as she unfurled the fabric and draped it carefully over his legs.

She was certainly not dodging that nickname.

 

 

 

***

 

 

As she left Lucien alone in the study, Rhiannon passed him one final cursory glance out of some misplaced habit she had picked up over the years. Many long nights spent in the workshop often meant her students would stay late and sleep at their desks, leaving their teacher and any assistants she might have at the time to care for their well-being.

Checking on Lucien, she told herself as she leaned against the study doors, was simply a reflex brought on by her own work.

Nothing more, and nothing less.

Taking a steadying breath, Rhiannon tucked her hands into the hidden pockets of her robes, her callused hands balled tightly into fists as she began the descent back down the spiraling stairs once more. Much as she was not in the business of allowing strangers the results of another’s diagnostics, it had been on their request that she examine Lucien’s eye. The least she could do was reassure his friends that he was, in fact, not facing any further risk of damaging his eye.

 

She found her High Lord and his guests in the same room, all pleasant smiles and polite conversation. Settled in high backed chairs that, upon immediate realization, were not at all designed for the impressive wingspan of their illustrious guest. They draped awkwardly over the gold embellished wood, the thin membrane shimmering in the low light of the mid-morning.

His High Lady, Feyre, she had learned from Lucien, smiled pleasantly as she glanced up in her direction.

Without Thesan’s pressing glare, she had the opportunity to fully take in the young lady. She certainly appeared Fae in each regard, her beauty as regal and refined as any other High Fae across Prythian. Her ears tipped softly; pale blue eyes wide with a curiosity for life she often found in the gleam of her own students.

 

“How is he?”

 

Rhiannon cleared her throat as she neatly crossed her hands at her back as amber eyes shifted from Feyre to Rhys, then back once more.

 

“He’s no worse for wear. Without my tools, I can’t run a full diagnostic beyond saying that a lens is cracked in the eye.”

 

Feyre stiffened, as her eyes came alight with a worry for her friend. She reached her free hand towards Rhys, who was just as quick to offer her the comfort. That was reassuring, however it certainly did not excuse overlooking Lucien’s obvious exhaustion for, what she understood to be, a pleasantry visit.

 

“He could do with a fair bit of rest, though. He’s upstairs in the study, ideally taking a much-needed nap. I would advise extending your stay with us until you’re all fit to travel again.”

 

From her left, Thesan cleared his throat as he leaned forward in his own seat.

 

“Rhiannon, we should not pressure guests, certainly not so soon—”

 

“I understand that, your Highness, but I must insist. As I often tell my students, a well-rested mind is that best tool one has at their disposal.”

She gestured to their guests with a vague sweep of her hand.

 

“As Emissary, is it not Lucien’s responsibility to ensure his High Lord and Lady depart and return home safely?”

 

Shadows fluttered restlessly about the corner of her eye, drawing her gaze quickly from her High Lord to their guests once more. Darkness clouded their eyes, a clear indication her words had not settled as well as she initially intended.

In a way, she could not find it within her heart to feel surprised. As she recalled from their time Under the Mountain, Rhysand had always been particularly prideful. Though he might have played his part well enough, there were often brief glimpses of the man beneath that carefully crafted veneer of poise and submission.

At his side, Feyre gripped her High Lord’s hand tight enough to blanche her knuckles.

 

“With all due respect, Master Alghari, we have a newborn to return home to.” Rhys replied curtly as he smiled coldly at her.

 

To this, Rhiannon blinked in surprise, her voice dying in the back of her throat. This was certainly not the care or concern she would have expected from the people who claimed to be Lucien’s friends. Rather, this was behavior she expected…

Taking a breath, Rhiannon let that thought loose before it had the chance to form in rebuttal and insult their guests beyond any reasonable sense of diplomacy.

Instead, she merely took a final glance at Feyre, who refused to meet her gaze for longer than a few moments as guilt pulled at her features.

 

“Very well then. Then, if I may be so prudent your Highness,” She turned back to Thesan as she spoke.

 

“I would suggest a hearty breakfast and a nice, long nap for Lucien before they depart this afternoon.”

 

 

***

 

Lucien glanced up as the gentle unlatch of the study’s door roused him from the sluggish warmth provided by the hearth warmed blanket across his legs. Exhaustion crept slowly, dragging at the edges of his mind with its disarming talons, a promise of comfort and respite despite the, otherwise, unfamiliar territory.

He was close to drifting off when Rhiannon entered the study once more, her sun-kissed features pulled taut in a scowl he seldom ever saw split between her brows. Her slender arms folded neatly across her chest, pulling her baggy robes over the swell of full breasts as she came to stand at his side.

 

“I take it that conversation wasn’t to your liking?”

 

Rhiannon sighed in an unabashed exasperation as she sat petulantly on the floor, her legs cross and spine bowed forward in a way that reminded him faintly of the spoiled nobles he encountered across the territory. The movement was striking in its similarities, as though shared amoungst all High Fae, regardless of where they stood within their respective courts.

He might have laughed, had her response not broken the thought short.

 

“With friends like that, who needs enemies.”

 

Lucien cleared his throat, drawing amber eyes from where they glowered at the embers in the marble hearth. Rhiannon, to her credit, had the decency to offer an admonished apology as she leaned back against the bookcase.

 

“Sorry, you’re right: that was uncalled for. I just… From an outsider’s perspective, it wasn’t a good look for them.”

 

“They’re new parents, it’s natural to be worried.”

 

The words rang hollow in his ears, yet it seemed to placate her for the moment. Rather than argue, Rhiannon sat upright and reached into a hidden pocket of her robes to produce a pair of small, black tipped pencils.

 

“What’s this?” He asked as she placed one of the pencils in his hand.

 

“Nothing much, really. I give these to my students so they can practice harnessing their magic, while being able to ask me questions in case I’m away from the workshop.”

 

Reaching into her robes again, she pulled out two scraps of parchment, clearly ripped carelessly from an old sketchbook of hers. When she had torn them, or how long she carried them, he could not say for certain nor believed she would answer.

Setting one of the scraps on the arm of his chair, she then began to write on her own.

Slowly, the familiar scrawl of her script appeared on his page, allowing him to watch as she took her time forming the words.

 

These are carved from black oak trees and enchanted specifically for students training under the Craftsman’s Guild. Just write on any surface, and it will appear on any surface available to the person who gave the pencil to you.

 

“Forgive my assumptions for this, but… Well, I have a hunch you could use a friend to talk to. And this is the quickest way to get ahold of me, without forcing either of us to trek halfway across Prythian.”

 

Lucien’s russet eye scanned the elegant letters as his heart inexorably warmed with the gesture. It had been long, too long in fact, since he felt this sense of ease around another person. Though they seldom saw one another, he could not help the playful smile that tugged at his lips as he studied the pencil in his hand.

He leaned on the arm of the chair, red hair spilling over his shoulder as he twirled the pencil in between his slender fingers for only a moment. Then, putting the inky graphite to parchment, he replied,

 

You mean, aside from blowing your workshop hearth apart? I hear that’s a rather effective way to get your attention.

 

Rhiannon snorted a laugh as his reply appeared on her paper, tension bleeding from her slim shoulders. Reaching out with a free hand, she flicked a callused fingertip over the arch of his cheekbone, eliciting a quiet laugh from him.

 

“You heard about that, did you?”

 

It would have been impossible to avoid, seldom did the Craftsman’s Guild experience such atrocious accidents. In the centuries they had existed, only a handful of memorable explosions and failed experiments had reached well beyond the borders of the Dawn; Rhiannon’s hearth had been the latest in the past few years. An ancient technique of fire magic that, historically, originated in the Autumn Court long before his father’s birth.

Legend said it was stolen magic, leading to only a handful of fae to know of it, much less master the fire long enough to form any sort of communication link between one hearth and another.

Lucien, and most of the Autumn Court these days, merely agreed that it was a foolish and ineffective spell that would, inevitably, cause more harm to one person or another.

This, he thought as he glanced down at the pencil once more, would certainly be safer and much more effective.

The last thing he wanted was to start unnecessary diplomatic tension due to another hearth incident.

 

“I mean it, though,” Rhiannon said as she leaned against the side of his chair, her head tipped towards his arm as she closed his fingers around the black barreled pencil.

 

“Anytime you need someone to talk to.”

 

Lucien smiled softly, his head bowing in a curt nod of affirmation.

 

“I will.”

Chapter 4: Chapter Three

As afternoon sunlight crested high above the red capped trees surrounding the palace and surrounding village, Lucien found himself more well-rested than he could recall since returning from the human lands. His eye no longer ached with the dryness of sleepless nights, the stiffness of tossing in bed all but vanished from his shoulders. An hour of comfort, it seemed, could offer worlds of difference to those who were in dire need of it.

Stairs twisting down the tower spire led home away from the warmth of a cedar burnt fire and a blanketing smell of vanilla almonds that perfumed every High Lord’s library across the Fae’s territory. Given the hour, he did not expect to find either Rhys or Feyre still lingering about the meeting rooms with Thesan. Rather, he found himself more than a tad surprised he had been left to rest for longer than a handful of minutes when one or the other could have just as easily decided they had spent more time away from their newborn than necessary.

Down the spiraling walkway, Lucien finally found himself at the bottom floor. Greeted only by the tender scent of morning glories and the familiar crispness of late summer upon the gentle wind seeping in through the open arched windows.

The soft weight of Rhiannon’s gift lay nestled in the breast pocket of his waistcoat, the black oak wood somehow warm through the layers of his clothing. With the parting request to write to her once he returned home safely, Rhiannon had shown him down as far as the receiving rooms before she left to find her High Lord.

Lucien made his way around the spire, making quick work of the short distance between the space separating the interior of the palace from the well manicured lawns of clover and white flowers no bigger than the head of a pin. Afternoon sunlight kissed his tawny cheeks, his auburn hair warming imperceptibly beneath the glow of golden yellow.

Summer was beginning to wane into autumn, he saw it every day he spent past the borders of their world amoungst the humans; the trees shifting from bushels of lush green to shades of burnt orange and faded reds, plants beginning to wither from the sudden drops in temperature. The cold would be upon them soon, though there was a distinct lack of concern in the recent years. With no obligations to the Night Court’s politics, he had never been pressed to celebrate festivals that were once important to those in seasonal courts.

Neglecting Calanmai, in particular, had been an unspoken blessing in it’s own right.

As he came to stand beyond the threshold of the palace, Lucien stretched his arms languidly, his shoulders offering a familiar ache deep within the muscle that had followed him for years. A soft, crisp summer breeze swept across the quiet clearing, bringing with it the scent of flowers and the promise of cooler nights in the coming weeks.

Footfalls, soft and quiet over his shoulder, drew his attention briefly. Though he did not see Rhiannon’s approach, it was the presence of her magic that prickled his senses as she came to stand at his side. Her hands tucked neatly in the hidden pockets of her robes, her amber eyes soft as she gazed outwards into the shadowed distance of a surrounding thatch of trees.

 

“Your friends should be down in a few minutes. I believe Thesan is showing them how to turn his bird on and off so it doesn’t flit around their nursery at all hours.”

 

Fighting he urge to rolls his eyes, Lucien frowned as he neatly crossed his arms over his chest and shifted to lean against the marble banister at the foot of the walkway.

 

“If they weren’t fashionably late, they’d never get anywhere.”

 

Rhiannon chuckled softly, the sound carried off on the warm summer breeze and into the unknown. It was strange, he thought absently, how her laugh seemed to wash over him—settle in his bones with the same tender weight of the blanket she had draped over him just an hour and a half ago.

He had spent so long wearing the mask of a man who belonged in his position; of charming his way through the courts to strengthen ties throughout the territory on behalf of whichever High Lord he happened to be serving. Lies were easier to spin than facts, certainly when it came to politics and the falsities of peace during such tumultuous times under Amarantha’s chokehold of a reign.

When, he wondered, was the last time he had been comfortable enough to let those carefully constructed walls crack enough to savor a light-hearted chuckle? Perhaps while Feyre had lived at the Spring Court, however he was not entirely certain of that assumption. Jesminda, he recalled, had once held such an infectious laugh that one could not have resisted the urge to laugh alongside her.

 

“Will you be returning to the Human Lands?”

 

Swallowing back the memory, Lucien shook his head curtly as he glanced from the clearing to her once more. Dwelling on past pain would achieve little more than worsen the slump he often found himself in in moments of encroaching silence.

 

“Not anytime soon, no. Feyre’s insisted I’ve spent too much time with the humans for the past year, and has been adamant I spend the Winter Solstice in the Night Court.”

 

To this, Rhiannon scowled in a displeasure she made no move to disguise. Though it was not an unusual request to make of an emissary, the summer months were often busy throughout the territory as the High Lords prepared for Midsummer, the Autumnal Equinox and Calanmai shortly after. Emissaries were often sent in place of their High Lords to conduct meetings in their stead, bringing back with them agreements and addendums to long standing treaties between their borders.

To keep one particular person in place for so many months was unorthodox and, largely, unheard of.

 

“That’s a long time to wait. Won’t your friends become concerned?”

 

“I should hope not; we laugh and drink as though we’re friends, however I don’t expect any of us to believe we’re more than a means to an end for each other.” He replied with a shrug of nonchalance he did not feel.

 

Rather, if they did grow concerned for his well being, he sincerely doubted they would ever mention it. Though his relationships with the humans was amicable, he would not go so far as to say they would miss him for extended periods of time. Their work was slow going, without much in the way of discovery to report back with.

 

“That’s… A very cynical way to look at it.”

 

“But not unrealistic?”

 

She shook her head in denial, her full lips pulled into a frown that creased her tawny skin with barely visible lines of weariness about the corners of her mouth. As an instructor, he supposed such an expression was commonplace as her students came to her with questions of all variables. How she continued to have the patience for such a path, he would never claim to understand.

 

“No, I suppose not. An ally does not a friend make, certainly not when they have spent so many years at odds with one another. Still,”

 

She glanced over his shoulder then, her amber eyes darkening with a wariness that belied the pleasant smile she offered. Lucien did not have to glance to sense Rhys’ presence, despite the amount of time spent in the Night Court, there was an unmistakable chill he felt slither down his spine each time the man entered the same vicinity as him.

Stories about him could be challenged, disproven by word of mouth or simple interaction. However, the raw power he wielded so effortlessly, both in war and the courts, was undeniable.

 

“Just… I hope you’ll write often.” She amended, then stepped aside so that Feyre might approach and brace a gentle, tattooed hand over his shoulder for only a moment. An unspoken sign, one that was as much a silent prod as it was an order.

They were to be leaving.

 

“I will.”

 

 

Rhiannon watched as a wash of shadows engulfed the space where Lucien and his current High Court had stood only a moment prior. There was something in his voice, an unmistakeable sense of agitation in how he spoke of the coming holidays that stirred her own heart in ways she had long since buried.

A trepidation—something bordering on a phantom panic at the mere thought of being caged to one place, familiar though it might be. She swallowed it down, fighting the prickly ball in the back of her throat as she forced herself back towards the stairwell. It was a different time, she told herself.

No longer did anyone have to worry about the proverbial cage.

She was simply searching for problems where none existed.

Notes:

I'm on Bluesky now. Haven't posted anything, but Elongated Muskrat renamed Twitter and that only starts my list of complaints.

Chapter 5: Chapter Four

Weeks had passed since the visit from the Night Court, and Lucien had only reached out a handful of times. Mundane things, often at specific times of day, were the topic of conversation; they would talk over breakfast, watching the meticulous scrawl of one another’s handwriting as it took shape upon any available surface the recipient’s pencil sat near. It was enough to keep Rhiannon’s gaze sliding towards her work table during early morning instructions with her students.

Mundane topics filled the pages, from day-to-day musings to the occasional outing along the borders of the Night Court, Rhiannon had kept each page tucked away in her desk drawers each time his elegant writing filled the parchment. Whether he did the same, he did not elaborate in their conversations, nor did she feel the need to pry into the matter.

Afternoon sunlight bathed the workshop in its golden rays as it pierced through the thicket of maple trees surrounding the town. With the scent of machine oil lingering in the summer warmed air and the last of her students departed for lunch, Rhiannon sighed heavily as she sat at her work table. Diagrams and tools lay in scattered heaps across the smooth surface, a clear deterrent for those who might be nosy enough to snoop through her half-finished projects.

Cheaters, as she often told her students during their first few days, would never prosper under her instruction.

She leaned back in her chair, stretching languidly across the stiff back until the knots in her spine worked themselves free with satisfying a pop. As silence settled throughout the workshop, broken only by the delicate brush of her pale pink robes across the wooden floor, she turned her attention to the small stack of letters that had been brought by early that morning.

Most were inconsequential, requests for extended credit time from less fortunate families who’s adolescents she instructed. Those were the most common, these days; with the territory still recovering from war, funds for certain families were scarce in comparison to others. She set those letters aside, content to allow them to gather dust and conveniently forget collecting payment from those individuals. Though she herself was not particularly wealthy, taking money from those who only wished to see their children prosper had never truly sat well in her heart.

Other instructors would call her soft, perhaps even foolish, for such a viewpoint. Yet, seeing the relief etched across those same faces eased something in her.

One letter at the bottom of the stack caught her eye. A heavy parchment, embossed in delicate strands of gold leaf along its four corners, she could only recall seeing this a handful of times. Official summons were not uncommon, though to see one in printed form rather than Thesan’s personal guards coming to escort her was an odd change of pace.

Moreover, she thought as she turned the letter over and beheld the wax seal, why summon the same craftsman twice in less than a year?

With a flick of her wrist, her letter opener slid out of its cup and floated into her waiting palm on a phantom wind. The bitter, metallic tang of magic sparked across her tongue, only to vanish just as quickly as it had appeared as the parchment fluttered noiselessly down.

Elegant, scrawling writing she did not immediately recognized colored the yellowed page, pulling a frown across her features as she read over the contents.

 

Master Alghari,

 

The Dawn Court’s presence is humbly requested in the Day Court in four days time. Due to recent events, we have regretfully come to the decision that High Lord Thesan will be unable to satisfy the time constraints within High Lord Helion’s summons, and thus a stand-in of sorts must be sent in his place.

While we understand this timing is far from ideal, Lord Thesan has decided you would be the best suited for this particular journey, and requests your presence at the palace no later than this afternoon to begin the journey in a timely fashion. Fret not, for Lord Thesan has already contacted Nuan in regard to your absence and she has thoughtfully agreed to take your place within the workshops while you are away, so as not to disrupt your student’s valuable time and education.

Please note that, while this is a request, it is unlikely to sway Lord Thesan’s mind in this regard, though for what reason I cannot divulge to you just yet.

Should this letter find you well, we insist that you pack what necessary items you will need for this venture, as well as a secure bag for your purpose within the Day Court. An aerial guardsman will be dispatched at the eleventh hour to escort you to the palace.

 

Regards.

 

Well, she thought with a huff of aggravation, that was hardly the invitation she expected nor wanted from the High Lord. Stand in—she was well aware enough of her own skills and worth to see the insult so poorly hidden amoungst that elegant script. Whether the writer intended for such disrespect, she could not say nor could she be bothered to care: Thesan should have certainly informed them of who they would be summoning for him.

With a heaving sigh, Rhiannon pulled the black pencil from its resetting place atop her desk and a blank scrap of paper to the center of the pile of scattered sketches.

 

They’re sending me to the Day Court this afternoon.

 

What for? Doesn’t Thesan have emissaries for that?

 

She stared at Lucien’s reply, picturing the pinched expression on his tawny features as he wrote; she could almost hear the slight whirring of his eye, if she considered the image long enough. For a moment, she wondered what he would be doing at this hour—how he would typically spend his mornings seemed straightforward in his correspondences, yet he seldom elaborated on his duties beyond the cursory meetings.

Of course, she knew better than to pry, lest she be accused of spying into another territory.

On paper, yes, but he rarely sends them to the solar courts—cauldron only knows why. Anyway,

 

She sighed heavily, brushing her free hand through the loose strands of her hair. There would not be much time before the designated eleventh hour; with no indication of her time away, she would certainly have to pack heavier than she believed necessary. Mother spare her, there were still sketches to grade before she left.

 

I’ll do my best to keep in touch while I’m away. I haven’t been told what I’m going there for, yet.

 

I understand, please don’t feel like you’re obligated when you’re away on important business. I’m not going anywhere, for the time being.

 

Rhiannon set her pencil down as the final few words took shape on the scrap of parchment, her full lips pulled into a tight frown. Part of her wanted him to elaborate, Lucien had made mention of spending more time in Prythian and the Night Court, however she wondered if that also meant his duties as emissary were being put on hold. It was unusual, given his experience in the neighboring courts, however with the power Rhys had it was not much of a stretch to consider.

Rather than dwell on the subject, she pushed herself up to stand with another languid stretch of her back. Her limbs ached with a stiffness she could not shake inside the workshop on a day-to-day basis, begging for use outside of wandering amoungst student tables and hunched over her own work. Perhaps, in a way, the time spent in another court would do her mind and body some good.

 

 

****

 

Aerial guardsmen were a small squadron of winged fae residing in he Dawn Court that, since the war with Hybern, did not venture far beyond their borders for more than a handful of hours. With diminished forces, the pressure to train a new generation of soldiers was higher now than she could ever recall in her lifetime.

As she stepped out into the late morning sun, only one guardsman had been deployed to escort her to the palace. Dressed in shimmering golden armor, she always wondered how it did not encumber their abilities in both flight and battle.

Rhiannon bowed her head in respect to the soldier, a woman who appeared to be no older than thirty. Her auburn hair had been pulled back and secured tightly into a braided bun, giving her regal features a sharp edge to them. Dark eyes and high arched brows gave Rhiannon the impression she would much rather be anywhere else in that moment.

 

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” She said as she stood upright.

 

The soldier shook her head, then gestured to the open space on either side of her, where a noticeable lack of luggage sat.

 

“No,” Her voice was firm, yet pleasantly accented in its song-like cadence. It was a common trait shared amoungst the Peregryn, due to their distant relation to seraphim. Those who had the opportunities to speak with them would all remark on the ease of their voices; one student of her master’s went so far as to claim they could listen to the soldier’s speak for hours and never grow tired of it.

Standing before one now, Rhiannon found the dichotomy between voice and facial expression to be more than a tad off putting.

 

“But I must ask: where is the rest of what Lord Thesan asked of you?”

 

“In my pockets, I’ve shrunk them down for the time being so as not to burden my escort.”

 

Relief flooded the soldier’s features, her armored shoulders slumping with an obvious fatigue she quickly mastered. Then, with measured steps in the hard-packed earth, she approached and scooped Rhiannon into her arms. Shimmering feathers of red and orange fluttered over her shoulders, sending loose plumage scattering to the ground as she pushed up from the ground and shot upwards into the waiting sky.

They arrived shortly after leaving the Artisanship District, with her Peregryn escort setting her down primly just before the palace entrance. She bowed once, then leapt back up towards the waiting sky, no doubt to finish what remained of her daily tasks alongside her fellow soldiers.

Thesan joined her within a moment, an easy smile scrawled across his features that suggested he had just woken from an impromptu nap. Of course, she thought absently as she spied his lover lingering in the background, perhaps that was not an accurate assumption.

Beneath one arm, he carried a stack of books she did not recognize from his accessible libraries within the palace. It was a common enough rumor that, on occasion, High Lords would borrow or exchanged books across their borders, both in times of turmoil and leisure. Thesan was certainly no different, and had been observed to be more of the avid reader in comparison to others in his position. With only Helion, and perhaps Rhysand to contend with, she was not at all surprised to see the books, rather it was the considerable lack of material that puzzled her briefly.

 

“You’re certainly punctual, Master Alghari.”

 

“I pride myself on it,” She replied curtly as she neatly clasped her arms at her back and offered a polite bow of her head.

 

“Indeed, well,” He huffed softly as he hefted the armful of tomes up and held them out to her.

 

“I do hate to be a bother in something so simple, but I’ve been in possession of Helion’s books for longer than I originally intended, and he is requesting we bring them back. But, in your spare time, I would like you to peruse his libraries for any information you can regarding the Northern Isles.”

 

Rhiannon frowned visibly frowned at his words as she took the stack of books and tucked them securely to her chest.

The Northern Isles were largely shrouded in mystery, save for the overall size of the landmass just beyond the borders of their territory. Everything else, from people to traditions, were only whispered about in the market squares from sea-hardened sailors, most too drunk to stand upright as they regaled any who would listen of their adventures.

Though it was rumored a handful of High Lords and their emissaries over the centuries once recorded such information down, none had ever been seen outside the guarded libraries often hidden beneath political buildings in each territory. Helion, she supposed, would be the best person to ask for such obscure information.

Yet, she could not help but wonder why he wanted it. They had no reason, nor spare resources to make such a journey for anything. Beyond that, to send sailors on an expedition, he would need clearance from Rhysand or risk sending a troop of Fae trouncing through the human lands.

 

“Will there be anything else I should look for?” She asked, instead of the racing questions at the forefront of her mind. Questioning his motives, regardless of how absurd they might seem, was pointless.

 

“I’m specifically looking for any information on the local belief systems and their ways for taming magic. It’s a stretch, but if anyone has what I’m searching for, it’ll be Helion. Give him my regards while you’re there.”

 

“Of course,”