Chapter Text
Lucien regarded his untouched drink of rum, thinking it the safest place to lock his gaze. Around him, the warmth of faelight and the murmur of conversation, but it was no longer accompanied by the fiddles of Spring, or the titters of mortals – it was the humdrum of the Night Court’s Inner Circle inside the High Lord’s townhouse.
He couldn’t believe he had actually decided to take Feyre up on her offer of refuge, but he had grown tired, and needed time. The search for Vassa and working with the Band of Exiles in the mortal lands hadn’t been able to distract him from what he was truly running from – himself, his past, and gods damn it, even his future. Looking around him, at all their faces – Feyre, of course; the two Illyrian males, Cassian and Azriel, who had helped them when they’d been hunted by his own brothers; High Lord Rhysand, too, and his cousin, the Morrigan – he wondered whether tensions against him had dulled or festered since he’d last been here; either way, he was sure they would keep him guessing.
Of course, there was Elain, too, laughing at something Mor whispered to her during their conversation with the Illyrians. The years away had done him some good; the mating bond’s pull wasn’t so strong anymore. He had only been here a few days, and they’d exchanged a few niceties – the politeness between them no longer too awkward. It seemed that Nesta was still cold toward everyone – in fact, the only time he’d seen her was in the doorway when he arrived, on her way out. Lucien’s glance passed over Rhys and Feyre in the corner, quickly looking away at the sight of their caresses. This was a good time to get out of the fray.
Manoeuvring his way through to the balcony, taking care not to linger, not to stare – ever the courtier – he stepped into the crisp evening air, right into the company of yet another at the railing. Brows furrowing, he grew cautious – he knew everyone invited was inside. However, he had no authority here, and deferred. “Excuse me, I didn’t—”
But his breath hitched as the figure turned. It was an Illyrian female standing before him, eyes drawn immediately to her big, black, membranous wings, talons gleaming on top. She was dressed in those leathers he had seen the others sport occasionally, a stark contrast to the finery everyone was clad in tonight. Sable hair was pulled back into what seemed like battle braids, her face drawn in the twilight.
She regarded Lucien as he regarded her. He had never seen an Illyrian woman before, and frankly, he was borderline intimidated. Remembering those lethal tones and short tempers, he carefully looked for those special jewels on her armour, but she had none.
“It’s alright,” she said, a wry tone lilting her voice as her gaze flicked beyond the doorway. “Not enjoying the party either?”
He let out a breathy chuckle, raising his glass slightly in a wordless admittance. “A friend of the Circle?” he ventured, thinking it safe enough to join her at the railing. She returned to what he guessed she was doing before – staring out at the street below, the river sparkling beyond. He appreciated the architectural prettiness of a citadel, but preferred the classical simplicities of a country manor.
“A colleague,” she murmured after a while. Lucien thought she must have been more than that, for she was here, in the High Lord’s townhouse of all places. “I’m sorry. My assignments take me away regularly – every time I return, Velaris is changed. Are you a guest of the Night Court?”
“It seems so, yes,” he replied, only somewhat rueful. The woman seemed to pick up on it, though, turning back to him. Eager to talk of anything other than what brought him here, he said, “I’m Lucien.”
“Lucien…,” she echoed, seeming to look at him with new eyes. “You’re the one who helped her.”
“Feyre?” he clarified, and his metal eye whirred as he noticed her jaw clench at the mention of the name. Experienced in court politics, Lucien couldn’t help himself from filing that instance away, wondering what her role was in the Circle’s dynamics. It was so lively with them, everyone having both say and sway – so unlike Tamlin and his singular rule, but Lucien shook his head. He didn’t want to think about Tamlin, or anything else he had left behind.
“Your eye,” she started, and Lucien deflated, knowing where this was going. “No,” she amended, seeming to understand his reservation. “Can you see through it?”
“I can,” he admitted, not knowing why he was feeling so put out at having to revisit the whole explanation – it was asked of him wherever he went. Her brows rose, taking one step closer as she regarded the work of gold. The woman was shorter than him, but this didn’t diminish her presence at all.
“How does it work?” she asked, and Lucien frowned, caught unawares. He was asked about his eye, yes, but always concerning the way it had been lost – not how this one functioned. People probably assumed it was merely for appearance; he knew that most didn’t care beyond the gory story behind it.
“Magic and tinkering.”
“Clever,” she mused, genuine marvel in her voice. “My name is Mira.”
Before the lull could drag, Cassian stumbled through the doorway to her, the lopsided grin on his face telling of a few drinks. “Come dance with us,” he slurred, “at Rita’s.” Some of the hair had already fallen out from his bun, and Lucien busied himself again with studying the contents of his glass.
He caught her glancing back inside, Mor’s voice flowing outdoors along with Rhys’ rumbling laugh. Her smile was tight as she shook her head at Cassian.
“Not tonight.”
“Not even to celebrate your return?” he tried, but she only looked away. It was dark now, night fully upon them. Cassian deflated, murmuring, “I remember the days when you’d dance with us. Miss that.”
“I recall,” she mumbled.
“Glad you’re back, though,” he said, Mira brightening a little at the words. She nodded, lifting her hand in goodbye as he left again, called forth by another opening of a wine bottle.
She leaned her elbows on the railing, dropping her head to rub at her temples. He wondered what sort of assignments she would have in peacetime – no doubt still serving as a fighter, hailing from such a warrior race of faeries.
“They’re just a little… much, sometimes,” she sighed. She didn’t have to explain herself to him, but he conceded nonetheless, knowing exactly what she meant. Mira seemed to regain some agency as she lifted her head, taking a breath before heading for the doorway.
On the threshold, Mira turned back to him. “I hope we see each other again.” Lucien couldn’t tell if her words were out of honesty or courtesy.
Finally taking that drink to taste the rum on his tongue, he wondered what he should do with his time here – nothing that would tie him to the court, but something that would keep him busy. Sparing a glance at the stars above, Lucien found the constellation of the Cauldron. He wanted to sneer at it – at fate – for everything that had been thrown upon him, but he merely blinked, letting the rum burn down his throat.
+++
Mira stared at a scratch on the bar counter, watching glasses being placed there half-full then taken away again, only to return empty. Occasionally there were decanters, too, tanned or fair hands pouring drink, sometimes spilling, sometimes steady. Movement and conversation surrounded her here in one of the poorer taverns, but Mira was apart from it.
Swivelling around, she let her eyes pass over the crowd – faeries standing in circles, drinking, High Fae at tables, dealing. It was rare to find grimy places such as this in Velaris, where the light was low and grey, and the people didn’t smile – but it was easier here, much easier than being in Rhys’ townhouse, surrounded by the Inner Circle. Without the aid of brighteye, or nevermore, or any kind of faedust running through her veins, she just couldn’t bear the weight of being reminded of what she couldn’t have – love, purpose, belonging.
For a few moments there, with Lucien with her at the railing, she almost tried to stay. He looked very much the image of Autumn: muted tones of reds and oranges colouring his hair, the air of fatigue hovering over him. Mira knew very little beyond the brief mention of his name in passing during some Inner Circle meetings – her role was concerned with the Illyrians. She’d hoped that talking to him would distract her from the souring of her mood, from the headache of withdrawal, but the laughter and warmth from inside was impossible to ignore. Back in Velaris until she was reassigned, Mira didn’t realise how much her own selfish feelings had festered, surfacing again after months away. She always felt on the edge of the Circle, and sharp one at that – it was starting to cut right into her heart.
In the corner, glaring from within a circle of suitors – Nesta. Mira smirked, probably looking a bit wolfish as she leaned back against the counter. At first, the woman had been as averse to Mira as she was to everyone else. But somehow, they had come to an understanding, achieved through late-night outings and talking through drink, not words. Mira didn’t think they had ever said anything coherent to each other, nothing that she could remember at least. She knew their reasons for grudges against certain members of the Inner Circle were different, but their coping methods seemed to intersect. It took one to know one, as the saying went, and Mira had seen herself in Nesta in brief flashes – the insecurity, the numbness, the desire to feel something but not wanting to deal with the consequences.
Nesta lifted her brow before falling back into that lethal stoicism. A greeting that made Mira grin, for she knew what that meant. Tonight, they would be mirrors once again, preferring strangers for company. Alcohol didn’t brighten things up like those shimmering powders could, but it would do for tonight. Downing a burning shot, Mira sauntered over. There were several empty glasses on the table, and while Mira knew Nesta could hold her liquor well, her cheeks were flushed.
One of her companions, a thin High Fae male with hair the colour of platinum, was kissing her shoulder, hands running down her arms. Nesta tilted her head back and his kisses travelled upward, but still she looked at Mira, heedless of the intimate touches.
“We should avoid Rita’s,” Mira began, wondering where Nesta would take them this time. She was expert at finding the rowdier taverns and the seedier bars, where a brawl wouldn’t throw you out and inelegant clothes wouldn’t be a point of judgement. Gods – Mira’s hands had started to shake now, her mouth tingling with cravings.
“Who’s your friend?” asked another of Nesta’s suitors, eyes roving over Mira’s wings. She let them flare a little, smirking as the male’s eyes glittered – Mira would always be proud of her wings.
“She’s not my friend,” Nesta intoned, but Mira only grinned. Onwards, it was only the alcoholic weightlessness making her feel lighter with every new drink at every new tavern. Somewhere in between, the cool grip of Nesta’s strong fingers as they spun – maybe it was when dancing, or merely walking to the next bar. There was also the rough murmur of Nesta’s voice, but it was overwhelmed by the clinks of glass and the jaunty tunes of the minstrels.
It was a kind of release to give in to vice again, letting it grip her fast in its clutches; and besides, Nesta had a way of making an unbecoming seem like an ascension.