Chapter Text
Lucien had nowhere to go.
Emerie’s house was a mausoleum now—haunted by her laughter, her scent, the echo of wings she’d never stretch again. Every room whispered her name, too sacred to touch. The River House, warm and full of life, felt like a stranger’s memory—crowded with a joy that didn’t belong to him. Spring Court was a ghost he had no desire to chase. Even Helion’s invitation to the Day Court—offered with rare gentleness—was turned away before the words could finish leaving his lips.
He didn’t want company. He didn’t want comfort.
So he returned to the apartment in Velaris he had once called his own — back before he chose to live with the Band of Exiles, before he met Emerie, and stayed.
For eight months, the curtains remained tightly drawn. Outside, the world moved on — celebrating peace, rebuilding what was lost — but Lucien remained unmoved, a ghost behind glass.
Sometimes Feyre or Rhys would check on him. He even met Feyre’s newborn daughter — a tiny, wingless miracle. Lucien was pretty sure he would have had a breakdown if the baby had wings, like a female Illyrian, just like Emerie.
Sometimes Azriel or Cassian came by, too. He let them in occasionally. Five minutes. Ten, if they pushed.
Then he sent them away with a few quiet words and a look that made them go.
Lucien let them in for one reason only — for information. He didn’t hide it. He was hunting her.
He knew the best place to gather intel was the Night Court. They had their own agendas in finding her, they needed to keep Nesta and Elain safe.
Ianthe.
He asked openly, unapologetically, about her. About Koschei. About anything of value, any whisper or scrap of truth that might lead him closer. He did not care who thought him obsessed. He was.
His shoulder still bore her mark—a seared, twisting scar where her magic had branded him. A bargain. She had made sure of it: if he ever killed her, he would die too. He remembered her eyes when she sealed it. The satisfaction in them.
But she had underestimated just how much he wanted her dead. It was the only thing keeping him going. Not redemption. Not healing. Not hope.
Revenge.
The kind that hollowed you out, stripped you down until there was nothing left but bone and flame.
He would find her.
And he would kill her.
Even if it was the last thing he ever did— which, it probably was.
The silence he chose was colder than solitude. But it was all he could bear.
One night, Nesta appeared unannounced on his doorstep.
No knock. No warning. Just the quiet sound of her boots on the stone as he opened the door to find her standing there, arms crossed, hair wind-tossed from the walk, eyes sharp and unreadable in the dark.
Lucien blinked at her. “What do you want?”
“Can I come in?” she asked, voice steady.
“Why?”
Instead of answering, she pushed past him without waiting for permission. “Because I’ve been doing the same thing,” she said, her voice low. “Distancing myself. And because... Ianthe didn’t put that death on just you, Lucien. She put it on me too.”
Lucien’s jaw tensed. “She can say whatever the hell she wants. We both know it’s on me.”
“How?” Nesta challenged. “She wanted my power. She offered Emerie’s life in trade for me.”
“She took Emerie because of me,” he snapped. “Because she knew what she meant to me. I should’ve never asked her to be with me. Should’ve never brought her into my mess.”
“You would’ve denied her the right to choose her own fate? Her own happiness?”
Lucien’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “You really think she was happy those last weeks? I was a wreck. She was trying to pull me out of it while the world crumbled.”
Nesta’s voice broke softly. “Ianthe would’ve killed her no matter what. Rhysand confirmed it.”
“I could’ve bargained again.”
Nesta scoffed. “Oh yes. That went so well the first time.”
“Well enough to keep Emerie breathing.”
“Don’t do this,” she said. “Don’t twist everything into your fault just so it makes sense.”
Lucien turned away. “Get out, Nesta. I don’t need this.”
“No,” she said, stepping closer. “I do. I need to forgive myself. For not making a bargain. For not stepping forward. And I know you’re carrying the same weight.”
“I said it’s my fault.”
“And I said it’s mine,” she shot back, voice rising. “So let’s sit. Let’s drink. Let’s hate ourselves together until we can’t anymore.”
Lucien stared at her. Then, wordlessly, he grabbed the bottle and poured two glasses. They sat at the table, drinking in silence. The first glass went down rough. The second smoother.
“She told me she loved me,” Lucien murmured, staring into the amber in his glass. “I didn’t say it back.”
Nesta’s eyes softened. “We knew she loved you—since Winter Solstice. Before you two left to see the world.”
“I was a mess,” he whispered. “She tried to help me, and I just... I broke.”
Tears blurred his vision. He pressed his palms into his eye, but one slipped down his cheek anyway.
“You were wounded. You still are,” Nesta said, pouring another glass.
Nesta looked down, her own eyes wet. “You didn’t bring her into this war. I did. I dragged her into training, into fighting. Into being someone she perhaps wasn’t supposed to be.”
Lucien wiped his face, his voice rasping. “Emerie would hate us sitting here blaming ourselves.”
Nesta let out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “She would’ve smacked us both for talking like this.”
He nodded. “She deserves better than our guilt.”
“She deserves remembrance. Not blame.” Nesta took another sip. “I’ve thought about it every night. And no matter how we try to twist it… Ianthe is the one who killed her. Not you. Not me.”
“She said she loved me,” he whispered again. “And I didn’t give it back. Not fully. I don’t know if I even could.”
Lucien stared at the glass, then downed it in one breath.
Nesta tilted her head. “You did love her. I saw it.”
He stared at the wall, empty glass cradled in his hand. “Maybe. Or I do not love anyone ever anymore. Or maybe I was loving two people at once.”
Her breath hitched and mouth fell open.
Lucien rose from the table and wandered to the couch, pouring another drink. “Yeah, I didn’t deserve her.”
Nesta picked up her glass and joined him on the couch. “That’s not true,” she said quietly. “You did love her. Anyone with eyes could see it.”
She took a slow sip before continuing. “But the mating bond… it’s different. It’s more than love—it’s instinct, it’s soul-deep. You can’t compare the two. One doesn’t erase the other.”
Lucien didn’t look at her, just stared at the floor, jaw tight.
Nesta pressed on, her voice softer now. “You’re not heartless, Lucien. You’re not broken. You’re confused—because what you felt for Emerie was real. And what the bond makes you feel for Elain… it’s overwhelming. But that doesn’t mean Emerie meant any less. You didn’t fail her by feeling both.”
She paused, then added, “You loved her. Maybe not in the way you expected to—but you did. And she knew it.”
He looked at her, his voice raw. “I’ve already killed two women by thinking I could love.”
“You did not kill Emerie,” Nesta said fiercely. “And whoever the first was, did you put the sword through her chest?”
“No,” he whispered. “My father did. Well, Beron.”
“So you didn’t kill them,” Nesta said, her voice thick. “And you’re just pining after Elain because you felt the mating bond—you got the glimpse of feeling it. You want that connection.”
Lucien shook his head slowly. “It’s not that simple.” He stared into his glass like it held the truth. “In my dreams… it’s Elain I see. In my nightmares, she’s the one pulling me out. She held me together after Ianthe broke me—kept me from falling apart completely.”
He hesitated, his voice softening. “But so did Emerie. She was there too. Always.”
Nesta blinked, hiccuping from the whiskey. Her words came slurred now, heavy with grief and drink. “I miss her,” she whispered, leaning against him, her body warm and unsteady.
Lucien didn’t pull away. “I miss her more,” he murmured.
Nesta kept talking—soft, slurred words that blurred into one another, tangled with hiccups and half-formed thoughts. Whatever she was trying to say was lost to the fog of drink and grief. Her voice became background noise, a lull of sorrow.
Lucien leaned back, eyes heavy. The warmth of the room, the weight of everything unsaid, pulled at him like a tide. Nesta's murmurs faded into the quiet.
Eventually, his eyes slipped shut.
And sleep, heavy and dreamless, took him.
—-
Lucien and Nesta had fallen asleep on the couch.
By some miracle, Lucien still clutched a half-full glass in one hand. The other had come to rest across Nesta’s stomach—not in any intimate way, just… somewhere to rest a hand. Nesta had curled against him, her legs tucked up on the cushions, using his chest as a pillow. Her own glass had spilled onto the floor sometime during the night.
They were roused violently when the front door was nearly kicked off its hinges.
Cassian stormed in, Elain just behind him.
“What the hell,” Cassian snarled, eyes locking on Lucien. “Get your hand off her.”
Lucien, hungover and still half-drunk, blinked at the light and then at Nesta. He slowly raised his hand in the air like he was surrendering. It took him a moment to even register what was going on. Nesta, groaning, rolled off the couch to the floor and mumbled, “Nothing happened.”
Lucien laughed—an actual laugh, the first in months. Nesta was still clearly drunk.
Behind Cassian, Elain’s hand clamped over her mouth, but her fury was just as evident in her narrowed eyes.
“For fuck’s sake, Nesta. All night, and I find you like this?” Cassian snapped, moving to help her off the floor.
He turned on Lucien. “If you did something—”
“I offered her a good drink and a nice sleep,” Lucien said, dryly.
Cassian’s fist met Lucien’s face before the last word even finished echoing.
“Cass,” Nesta mumbled, then broke into a lopsided grin. “Nice to see the cocky bastard’s back.”
Lucien smirked through the ache in his jaw and downed the last of his whiskey.
“I swear, nothing happened,” Nesta said, her words slurred. “Promise.”
“What did happen?” Elain finally spoke, her voice low but pointed.
“Whiskey. Sobbing. Sleep,” Lucien said, rubbing his temples. “Don’t remember half the shit we talked about.”
“Hope you both feel better now,” Cassian muttered, lifting Nesta into his arms.
“We are,” she mumbled, glancing at Lucien.
He nodded once, just barely.
Cassian carried her out, but Elain lingered.
Lucien’s mechanical eye locked onto her. “What do you want?”
She didn’t answer. The smell of alcohol still hung in the room. The apartment was a disaster—dishes piled in the sink, clothes thrown across every surface, a few blades scattered on the floor.
Lucien pushed himself off the couch, sniffed his shirt, then pulled it over his head and tossed it aside without looking at her.
“I’m hungover as fuck,” he muttered. “Say what you came to say or get out.”
Elain’s eyes dropped to his bare back, where the remnants of old whip scars were fading. A few more months and they’d be gone. But gods, even marked by pain, the male was beautiful. Sculpted muscle, bronzed skin—it hurt to look at him.
He turned to face her. “I said, what do you want?”
“Your apartment is a fucking mess,” she snapped.
“It’s mine,” he said, shrugging.
Elain bent down, grabbed some of the discarded clothes, and started gathering them into a pile. She moved toward the sink to clear the table.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Cleaning.”
“We’re Fae. Use magic and get it over with,” he said, flopping back onto the couch.
She ignored him. He sighed and flicked his fingers—just like that, the mess vanished. The room was clean, the air fresh.
Elain blinked.
“Haven’t they taught you lesser magic?” Lucien asked.
“None of your business.”
He laughed under his breath.
“I’m having dinner tomorrow,” she said. “You should come.”
Lucien gave her a long, unreadable look. “I think not. You saw how pissed Cassian was—who knows what I might do to the other females there,” Lucien said with a cold smile. “Wouldn’t want to give Azriel a reason to drag me out in pieces.”
Elain didn’t flinch. She stepped closer, her voice low but sharp as a blade.
“You always do this—hide behind that smirk and act like no one can touch you.”
She crossed her arms, meeting his glare without a flicker of hesitation.
“Stop sulking in the dark and pretending the world doesn’t exist. You’re coming to the gathering. Clean yourself up, wear something that doesn’t reek of whiskey, and show up.”
He sat up. “Don’t think that just because I talked to Nesta, something’s changed. I nodded to keep the peace. That’s it. I don’t need help. I don’t want your pity. I’m not going to your little dinner or pretending everything’s fine. I’m not playing nice at Night Court gatherings. Now get the hell out.”
Elain stared at him for a long moment.
Then she turned and left—without another word.
—
Lucien hadn’t meant to start healing.
Not really.
But talking to Nesta had carved open something sharp and festering—and in the weeks since, the infection had begun to drain. He still preferred silence, still loathed the too-bright cheer of others, but he could walk through Velaris now without flinching at every corner. Without imagining Emerie at his side, laughing. Without hearing Ianthe’s voice in the rustle of cloaks.
Each day, he walked the city for at least an hour, often longer. In the evenings, he trained alone in the forest—far enough from town to be alone, close enough that Azriel’s shadows still trailed him. He felt them watching. Not invasive. Just present.
As if they didn’t trust he’d stay. As if they feared he’d vanish.
But where would he even go? Without a purpose, there was nowhere left to run.
Another four months passed. He skipped the Winter Solstice. Ignored every invitation Feyre sent his way. The familiar dread of Calanmai was beginning to fester in his bones. Memories clawed their way back. Of masks, of heat and magic and manipulation. Ianthe had twisted that tradition into something unrecognizable.
Emerie had been the only balm. And now she was gone.
Lucien returned from the forest one evening, sweat drying on his skin, when he found someone waiting in his apartment.
“Hey,” Feyre said from his worn couch.
“Feyre,” he sighed, stepping into the apartment. “By all means, make yourself at home. Any news of Ianthe?”
“No,” she said gently. “I’m sorry. It’s been more than a year. We’ve turned over every stone. She’s… disappeared.”
He clenched his jaw, shutting the door behind him. “Then why are you here?”
“To see my friend.”
He gave her a look but headed into the kitchen. “Tea?”
“Sure.”
As he reached for the kettle, she added, “How are you?”
“I’m better,” he muttered, filling it with water.
“Glad to hear it.” A pause. “That means you’ll come to dinner tomorrow.”
Lucien scoffed. “I said I’m better . Not good. Better from hell is still underground.”
“Lucien.” Feyre’s voice held warning and warmth. “I know you’ve been outside. You’ve been training. That means something, you are coming.”
“Nope,” Lucien said flatly.
Feyre crossed her arms. “Really, Lucien? Stop shutting us out.”
“I’m not. Have I not always let you all in, offered food, tea, I even pretend to laugh at Rhys’s jokes.”
“You let us in just to ask about Ianthe.”
“That’s not true,” he said, settling into a chair. “I also want updates on Koschei and Hybern.”
She gave him a pointed look. “You’re coming to the dinner.”
Lucien raised a brow. “Make me.”
“I will,” Feyre said sweetly. “Don’t tempt me to scramble your memories and replace them with fluffy ones—full of sunshine, hugs, and you being everyone’s favorite cuddle bug.”
Lucien growled low in his throat. “You wouldn’t dare.”
She smirked. “Try me.”
He stared at her, tired, a flicker of something almost amused in his eyes. “You’re persistent.”
She folded her arms. “You can drink with Nesta, but not join your High Lady for one dinner?”
“That was one time, Nesta didn't try to fix me,” Lucien said, voice low. “She just drank. She didn't look at me like I’m broken.”
“Just a small dinner,” Feyre said, her tone softer now.
Lucien scoffed, turning away. “It’s Calanmai tomorrow. I’d rather not.”
“Exactly,” Feyre replied gently. “That’s why you should be with friends. You shouldn’t be alone on that day.”
Lucien let out a bitter laugh. “What friends?” He shook his head. “Better to be alone”
“I’m your friend. And you’re not as alone as you think.”
She stepped toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“Don't make me mess with your mind.” And then she left.
Lucien stood alone in the quiet apartment. The kettle whistled behind him.