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Chapter Text

Fate.
A word meaning destiny.
Fate.
A word meaning doom.

-Benton James Kessler

All knights who attempted to pull the Master Sword from its pedestal were given the same warning.

The Sword would only select a master who was pure of heart and strong of body. If a wielder of insufficient strength attempted to draw the sword, it would drain their life force. A fool who didn't yield would be a dead one.

If you feel your strength waning, let go, the captain of the guard cautioned. Don't kill yourself trying to be a hero.

Every person who touched the sword before Lucien seemed to bow to its power, collapsing onto the pedestal like puppets whose strings had been yanked from somewhere deep below the earth.

Lucien was therefore surprised when he laid his grip on the sword and felt… nothing. There was the resistance of the stone, groaning against the blade—Cauldron, it was really wedged in there—but aside from the physical exertion of trying to pull the damn thing out, there wasn't any otherworldly sensation to hint that his palm was wrapped around anything but an ordinary hilt.

It was when Lucien felt the stone give that he started to second-guess himself. There'd been plenty of instruction about what to do if the sword rejected a knight's attempt, but no one told him what to do if it fucking worked.

No one expected he would pull the sword, least of all Lucien. It was a joke that he was even attempting, a goading from Tamlin after his own failed attempt, because wouldn't it be funny to see Eris's face if you pulled that sword instead of him?

Only there was nothing funny about the look on Eris's face.

They were all given the same warning, after all. It wasn't just that if a knight failed to pull the sword, it could kill them.

It was that if a knight succeeded in pulling the sword, it signalled the return of Calamity.

The look on Eris's face wasn't envy. Lucien would become a hero of legend and outrank his six older brothers, sure, but he was also the harbinger of the end of times.

As the Chosen Hero, the wielder of the Sword that Seals the Darkness, Lucien would be responsible for standing between Prythian and ruin. No pressure.

But even that responsibility would come second to his new, primary objective:

To live and die in the service of the Princess.

Chapter Text

If Lucien believed the most difficult part of becoming the Chosen Hero would be vanquishing the Calamity, that was before he'd met Elain Archeron.

Serving in the Royal Guard, he'd already known her in passing. He lived and trained on the castle grounds, the same as his brothers, and often caught glimpses of the princess at a distance.

She and Lucien were similar in age—young, far too young, for the responsibilities they would be assuming—but Elain carried herself with a grace that suggested she bore all the wisdom of her past lives.

If one believed the legends, that was. Those stories suggested that Lucien and Elain were reincarnations of the same Princess and Hero that had been fighting the Calamity for thousands of years. Lucien skewed towards the skeptical, but if there was anything that could convince him, it would be the pull he felt to Princess Elain upon first seeing her, and every moment after.

But that pull could just as easily be explained by the fact that the princess was outrageously, unfathomably, forbiddingly beautiful. He doubted it was necessary to have fallen in love with her in hundreds of previous lifetimes in order to fall in love with her in this one. Otherwise, all the guards who went slack-jawed when she walked by during training would be reincarnations of the Chosen Hero, too.

And Lucien knew they weren't, because he'd watched them try, and fail, to pull the sword. He knew it couldn't be just anyone because he could list a dozen knights he thought would be better suited to the legends and had, somehow, fallen short when he hadn't.

It was still a bit incomprehensible to Lucien how he had been chosen.

And evidently, it was incomprehensible to the princess, too.

"Stop following me!"

Lucien ground to a halt when the princess whirled to face him, her braid lashing through the air like a whip he just narrowly dodged. It swung back into place over her shoulders, sitting elegantly atop a cascade of loose, golden brown curls. The style aimed to keep the unruly curls out of her face, but a few of them had already sprung loose at her temples, falling just short of her rapidly reddening cheeks.

It was strange to see her up close for the first time like this. He felt as if he was still in the sparring ring, facing off against an opponent who'd just struck him twice in the chest. First, with an unobstructed view of her soft, delicate face—the kind that spawned poetry and ballads and wars. Two clever eyes were narrowed in his direction, emphasized by downturned brows and a pair of pink, perfect lips that were screwed up into a scowl. That was the next strike, knocking him off balance before he'd even had a chance to recover from the sight of her.

Her whole body was clenched in anger, from her nose down to her fists. A small, deviant part of Lucien wanted to see if he could push her far enough to throw one of those fists at his chest, just to see how hard she could hit him.

But the sword at his back grew heavier, chasing away the mischievous thought. There wasn't time for playing any longer. The prophecy didn't exactly quantify how imminent Calamity was, but the High King and his scholars acted as if they expected it would rise with the next dawn.

Since the moment Lucien pulled the sword, he'd been thrust into a constant state of hypervigilance—even inside the castle grounds, surrounded as it was by fortified walls and an entire regiment of guards. It was… an adjustment to be surrounded by people who treated every moment, no matter how mundane, as a verge of crisis.

So when he saw a chance for levity, he wanted to take it. He ached to make a joke, to tease and whittle down the princess's staunch defences the way he might if he were to meet her in a world where they were equal rank with no looming cataclysmic fates.

But she was his superior, and the High King had made Lucien's role very, very clear.

He said nothing.

Elain stamped her foot, incensed by the silence or his refusal to move; he couldn't decide.

"I don't care what my father says," she snapped at him. "Regardless of the King's orders, I don't need an escort to walk me thirty feet to my own bedchamber!"

They'd only just left their audience with the High King. Lucien had officially been appointed as Elain's personal knight not five minutes ago, but he'd been expecting this explosion the moment he entered the throne room and saw the hostile glare she fixed in his direction.

Captain Helion (whom he now, confoundingly, outranked) had warned him about Elain's temper on their return to the castle. He had also suggested that the discovery of the Chosen Hero would be a tender subject for her.

Lucien could see that now.

"I've managed just fine in the castle for the 21 years it took to identify the Chosen Hero," she flung at him. "I think I'll manage just fine for five minutes more."

He stared at her, wondering what she reasonably expected from him. His orders were to stay by her side at all times. Did she really think he'd defy that instruction so soon after being assigned?

Elain braced her hands on her hips, some of her anger morphing into scrutiny. "Do you speak?"

That felt like a trick question. Of course Lucien spoke, but it wasn't his job to speak to the princess. And frankly, he wanted to retain his silence because he knew it would needle at her. If she was going to give him a hard time, then why couldn't he return the favor, in what small ways his rank and position would allow?

"Fine," Elain huffed, throwing up her hands. "Clearly, I'm the only one here with a mind of my own. If you want to waste your time following me around in the perfectly safe hallways of the castle, be my guest. In my opinion, it'd be better for all of us if you used what valuable time we have left to practice your sword."

Lucien clenched his jaw at the insult. He was a perfectly fine swordsman—the best, Captain Helion would claim, though he knew each of his brothers would contest. He was the youngest page to have ever been granted knighthood, though that, too, was an accomplishment his brothers attributed to their own talents, since he trained under them from the moment he was old enough to hold a sword.

So, really, it was foolish to let that offhanded comment wound his pride. But Lucien thought she was right. What was he really achieving by following her through the castle and standing outside her door? If Calamity was coming, shouldn't he familiarize himself with the weight of the sword at his back, learn the ins and outs of the way it was balanced, adjust to the feel of it in his palm, until it was an extension of his own body?

But even if Lucien was able to master the sword by dawn, his skill with it would be meaningless without Elain. As the last living descendant of the Mother Goddess, she was the only one who possessed the power to seal the Calamity away. He could weaken it with his sword, but only she could save Prythian.

If he fell in battle, the soul of the Hero would be reincarnated into the next unlucky bastard. But the power of the Goddess existed only in her bloodline, and she was the last of it. That's why his job as her appointed knight was crucial. He was expendable. She was not.

And if the rumors were true, Elain hadn't mastered her sealing powers yet. That was the crux of her dislike, he assumed. She wasn't ready, and he'd put a ticking clock on her progress by triggering the prophecy.

When Lucien still said nothing, Elain released a low, dissatisfied groan and stormed the short remaining distance to her room. She shut it in Lucien's face before he could follow her inside. He decided that was perfectly agreeable, since it kept him out of the princess's verbal sparring range.

Until she wrenched open the door. "And another thing!"

Lucien looked at her, quirking a brow.

"I like to sleep in. So don't you dare knock on my door in the morning. Not unless Calamity rises. Understood?"

He dipped his chin in acquiescence, which earned him a scoff of outrage—presumably because he didn't answer with an obedient yes, your highness—before the door slammed in his face again.

Chapter Text

Calamity didn't rise the next morning.

Apparently, neither did Elain.

When Lucien relieved her morning guards, they'd told him the princess had yet to leave her bedroom. They didn't give the impression that this was unusual, and remembering what the princess had told him the night prior—I like to sleep in—Lucien was content to resume his post outside of her chambers well into midday.

The arched windows on the opposite wall offered a glimpse of the First Gatehouse. He could see the guards patrolling the parapets below, and swore there were more of them posted than usual. Typically, the numbers would thin at this time of day, during the lull between morning and evening training. Most of the men who attended morning training would grab lunch before trading shifts, but perhaps morning training had been cancelled.

Just in case.

How long would they all be holding their breath, waiting for an end of time that may never come? Perhaps Lucien would be old and withered by the time Calamity arrived, and the sword would fall to the next chosen one.

It was a comforting thought. And there was more comfort, still, that the Princess didn't harbor the same anxieties as the High King and his men. She was the only one with direct lineage to the Mother Goddess, after all, which meant she was the most likely to sense any pending catastrophe. If she could sleep contentedly past lunch, then Lucien could trust they were safe another day.

Not that it was ideal that she would sleep past lunch, when there was so much to be done. But far be it from Lucien to dictate a Princess's schedule. Unless he received a direct order from the High King, he would let her sleep. Hopefully, being well-rested would subdue her temper.

Even if it was a little boring to wait outside her bedroom for hours. He passed it by watching the guards run drills outside the gatehouse, then by counting the clouds in the sky. An hour in, he unsheathed the Master Sword and practiced the weight of it in his palm, passing it from one hand to the next.

Eventually, he resorted to just leaning with his back against the stone wall, feeling the hard scrape of mortar through his uniform. He let his head lull back, staring blankly at the stone detailing of the vaulted ceiling.

"Sir Lucien?"

Lucien jolted into an upright position, blinking at the grey-haired woman before him. He didn't recognize her, but she bore an invoking stone on her forehead that signified she was an acolyte of the Mother Goddess. As a priestess, she would have vowed to exclusively serve the Mother Goddess's bloodline, which meant she was one of the few people in Prythian who answered to the Princess first and the High King second.

He dipped his chin respectfully in greeting.

"Is Princess Elain in her room?" The priestess asked. "She didn't attend her morning prayers."

He felt a sudden jolt of apprehension, not in his chest or down his spine, but across his lap—through the scabbard that rested there, thrumming with such despair that it scalded him. Lucien hissed in pain and scrambled to his feet, letting the Master Sword clatter to the stone floor

The woman startled at the abrupt movement and took a step backward, pressing a hand to her throat. "Is everything alright?" She asked. Her eyes widened, blackening with terror. "Has…"

Has Calamity risen?

They shared the same thought, however briefly. Lucien regarded the Master Sword, afraid to touch it lest he feel that awful sensation again. Not quite a vibrating, but… like a bell, struck at a resonance only he could sense. And it was deafening.

With a wince, he bent to retrieve the sword. As his fingers curled around the sleek scabbard, that sense of dread came rushing back, but it was tempered. Less intense, now that he knew to expect it.

"Princess Elain!" The woman cried, rushing past Lucien to slam her fist on Elain's door.

She was clearly panicked, thinking Calamity had risen, and he knew he should clarify that's not what the Sword was trying to tell him. At least, he didn't think so. It still hummed discontentedly at his back, but not with an urgency that said the end is here.

When no answer came from the princess, the woman decided to let herself in. Lucien followed closely behind. At the sight of Elain's perfectly made bed, he thought he understood what the sword was trying to tell him.

The Princess was missing.

Not a great look for his first day as her guard. He couldn't fathom when she would have escaped on his watch—he'd been outside her room the whole Mother forsaken time. Perhaps she'd snuck out before he'd relieved the night watch. It was rare, but not unheard of, for the less experienced guards to doze off during slow night shifts.

The difference wouldn't matter to the High King. If Elain did sneak off during the night shift, it had still taken Lucien hours to discover she was missing.

I like to sleep in.

What a fool she made him out to be.

With an exasperated sigh, Lucien turned heel and left the women in the room without any further explanation. Perhaps she would go inform the High King of his failure, but his largest concern was finding Elain.

It wasn't a difficult task, in the end. He reasoned she had to be on castle grounds, or else she would have been caught at one of the two gatehouses. She wouldn't go anywhere that would risk the King or guardsmen finding her unattended, so that ruled out the dining hall, observation room, guards chamber, and great hall.

She could be in the sanctuary, particularly because he wasn't permitted to enter, but as he began walking that direction, he felt a pull in his chest. As if there was a string tied at his rib, tugging him around the curtain wall until he arrived at the library on the opposite side of the palace.

Lucien found her sitting at a table on the second level, paging through a tome that looked to weigh nearly half her body weight. She didn't look up as he approached. Even when he parked himself at the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest, she kept her eyes fixed on the book.

"Sir Lucien," she said, her voice bland. She flipped the page. "I wondered when you might join me."

Had he expected an apology? He supposed that made him a fool twice over—a fool who was clenching his jaw to restrain the harsh words boiling on his tongue, bitter with anger.

Lucien wasn't used to being outwitted. It irritated him that she snuck out at the expense of his reputation, but he was more stung that he had fallen for her deception in the first place. He'd been warned she was stubborn; he should have anticipated she would lie to him.

It was a failing on his part. She'd seen a weakness and took her chance, like any decent opponent would. And it wasn't his place to reprimand her, no matter how much she tested his patience.

Objectively, Luicen knew all of this. He still entertained the idea of slamming that book shut and chucking it out the nearest window.

"Nothing to say to me?" Elain taunted. At least there was still one way he could get under her skin without undermining her position. When he said nothing, Elain huffed and turned back to her book. "Pity. It might have actually made you interesting."

Clenching his teeth, Lucien distracted himself from her barbs by studying the contents of the book she had open. The left side of the page included an illustration of a statue of the Mother rising from a pool of water lilies. The inscription beneath it read: The Spring of Power. From his cursory glance over the rest of the text, it looked to be a history of prayer rituals.

If this was the material he read in his leisure, Lucien decided he'd be picking fights just to make things interesting, too.

"You don't have to stand there, you know," the Princess groused. "You've gotten your point across. If you won't leave—which would be my preference, I would note—then at least do me the favor of brooding in the corner so I don't have to feel your breath on my neck."

Lucien didn't move. Maybe he couldn't argue with her, or speak his mind in any true capacity, but he didn't need to take direct orders from her, either. He answered to the High King, and the High King's only decree was to stay by her side at all times.

So if he could get a little bit of revenge by staying in place, far too close for her liking, then he would take it.

The Princess cast a glare over her shoulder, which he answered with a smirk full of challenge. One that said, What are you going to do about it, princess?

It was fascinating to watch her face go bright red, like he was witnessing her anger as it actively filled her body, rising higher and higher. When it reached the tip of her ears, turning them the same color as his hair, he felt the urge to tug on their dainty points to see if steam would puff out.

Elain clapped the book shut and shot to her feet, tucking the tome beneath her arm.

"Fine! I'll finish my reading in my room, then."

She was shorter than him by over a foot, which made her effort to stand toe-to-toe a commendable one. She had to angle her neck in order to scowl at him, which meant that her pinched brows and wrinkled nose were more reminiscent of an angry kitten than a vengeful goddess.

It diffused most of his earlier irritation, though he dared not let it show. If Elain realized how adorable she looked, he was convinced it would only increase her rage tenfold.

Really, it was a good thing she was so spirited. Even if it was to his current detriment. Anyone destined to defeat the Calamity ought to possess a little courage and tenacity. Lucien wasn't even certain if he possessed the traits in sufficient supply.

Not Elain, though. He wouldn't be surprised if she could defeat the Calamity through the power of sheer, stubborn will.

It was comforting. At least one of them held the fate of the world in good hands.

"What are you smiling about?" She asked, brown eyes narrowed.

Lucien only shrugged. And when she exclaimed in outrage and stomped out of the library, he let himself laugh under his breath.

Chapter Text

As far as Lucien could tell, his mishap of allowing the princess to sneak out from under his nose was never reported back to the High King. He was fortunate to have been caught by a priestess. Anyone else would have gone to the High King right away, but a priestess would always defer to the princess first.

And clearly, Elain didn't want her father to know she'd snuck out.

Even so, it was a mistake Lucien would not be replicating. When he relieved her guards the next morning, he made a point of knocking on her door until she answered. The castle grounds were still shrouded in the lingering shadows of dawn, but if she wanted to sleep in, then she would need to regain his trust.

Elain pulled open the door, looking surprisingly alert for the early hour, and placed her hands on her hips. "How can someone who refuses to speak be so pushy?"

Her hair was already styled, pulled back from her face using two neat braids that joined at the back of her head like a crown. The rest of it came free over her back and shoulders. He felt the strange, ill-advised urge to tug on one of the curls and test its bounce.

She would likely slap him if he tried. Funny how that didn't put him off the thought.

"Well?" Elain prompted. "Are you here to check under my bed for intruders? If you don't find any there, perhaps you can check my flower pots next."

A facetious invitation was an invitation all the same. With a smirk, Lucien placed his palm on the door—and, granted, maybe he didn't need to place it quite so close to her face—and pushed it wider, granting himself entry to her room. She scoffed, scrambling out of his way like she feared his presence would taint the air she breathed.

He made a point of striding to her bed and crouching to examine the space beneath.

"Really?" She asked flatly.

Lucien frowned, scrutinizing the dust-riddled floorboards. Then, with a grunt of surprise, he removed the sword from his back and lowered his body flush with the ground, extending an arm into the darkness.

Soft, curious footsteps sounded behind him. "What is it?"

In his peripheral vision, he could see her leaning over, angling her head to try and see what caught his attention. Curious little thing. She was so unguarded in her fixation that when Lucien cried out and thrashed his body forwards, as if he were being dragged under by some malicious creature, she shrieked and staggered back.

"What's wrong?"

She yelped as the struggle continued, hovering nervously as though she wasn't certain if she should intervene. When Lucien finally yanked his arm out, flopping onto his back as though driven by the momentum of a great force, it finally dawned on her what was happening.

"You're mocking me, aren't you?" She asked behind an accusing stare, which narrowed on his decidedly uninjured arm.

With a grin, Lucien produced the stuffed rabbit he'd found beneath her bed. "I caught the intruder."

Her eyes widened, numbly repeating his words back to him. "I caught the—" With a hiss, she snatched the rabbit from his hands and began using its ear to propel a succession of cotton-padded strikes upon his chest. One after the other. "I'm sure you think you're very funny!"

Lucien did think it was quite funny, but he didn't admit to it lest she decide to upgrade to a sharper object. The Master Sword was only a foot away, and the princess would surely enjoy the poetry of stabbing him with it.

"I can't believe that's the first thing you've said to me!" She seethed, the words emphasized by a rhythmic thwack, thwack, thwack.

Lucien could easily stop her, or simply roll out of the way, but she seemed to be working something out. And he couldn't begrudge his view of the princess leaning over him in her nightgown, the fabric thin and pink and tied in a cute bow just below her bust. It was modest sleepingwear, all things considered, but the lace-hemmed neckline did sit low on the swell of her breasts, and at this angle… He didn't let his eyes stray, or she really would stab him with his sword.

"And you've made me brutalize poor Nelly, which wasn't the least deserved!"

"Nelly?" He repeated, not following.

"The rabbit!" She exclaimed, launching Nelly into his face in one grand, final blow. Lucien made a show of sputtering around the fake fur that landed in his mouth.

And then it happened. She laughed.

He was grateful the rabbit was covering his face, or she would have seen the stupid grin that came over him, unreasonably proud that he'd made the princess who was determined to hate him actually laugh. Given, it his at his expense, but it proved she was capable of finding him amusing in some capacity.

From its scabbard, the Master Sword began singing beneath her laughter, joining like a heralding angel expressing its approval at his one, mediocre accomplishment.

Giddy, he couldn't resist asking, "Should I check the flower pots next?"

"Get out."

-

Fortunately, after Lucien was kicked out of the room (having declared it free of any intruders), it didn't take long for Elain to emerge. Her nightgown had been unfortunately swapped for a plain white frock, one which was remarkably unremarkable for a crown princess.

At his look, she explained, "I must wear this dress during my devotions. It's meant to be unassuming. There's no place for vanity in the Sanctuary."

When it was clear she was expecting a response, Lucien hesitated, uncertain what to say. In his opinion, dressing her in rags was a fruitless exercise. Elain could wear a tablecloth and would still be the loveliest in the room, regardless of who was present.

He shrugged, which caused her to sigh.

"Back to the silence, then?"

It wasn't that he wanted to be silent. It was just… he didn't know where to find the balance yet. It was supposed to be black and white, a knight and his charge. There wasn't hatred or friendship, only duty and loyalty. With Elain, the crystaline waters of that codex became murky at best, and he was still learning to navigate them.

Footsteps sounded down the hall at the same moment he opened his mouth, prepared to say something, at least. They both turned as one of the High King's guards bowed low to Elain and announced they were being summoned.

They entered the Inner Sanctum together, the Princess three paces ahead. He stopped at the outskirts of the room, bent at the knee in a position of fealty—one arm clasping a fist to his heart while the other was braced on his knee. He could feel the Master Sword writhing uncomfortably in the scabbard at his back.

"Princess Elain. Sir Lucien," the High King rumbled in greeting.

Lucien kept his head bowed, parallel with the floor. He would stay that way until the King dismissed him.

The High King was the first to speak.

"Your tutor has informed me you missed yesterday's morning prayer."

"I was up early," Elain explained, head still bowed. "I couldn't sleep. I offered my prayers before dawn, then continued my studies in the library."

The High King was silent for a moment. Lucien couldn't see his expression, but he could feel the Sword's apprehension.

"Sir Lucien," the King said. "Can you confirm my daughter's tale?"

Lucien wondered if the High King had discovered he'd lost the princess yesterday, and this was a test of some kind. He didn't know if Elain had truly offered her prayers before he found her in the library, and it felt slightly as if he was being asked to betray Elain or betray the King.

He surprised himself when he answered, "Yes, Your Highness."

"You don't believe your own daughter?" Elain accused, outraged. "You need your loyal spy to validate my words now?"

"Curb your tongue, child. I must validate your claims because I'm inclined to believe you aren't taking your duties to heart. Your tutor tells me you've made no further progress in unlocking your power."

"I—" Elain sounded flustered. "I'm trying my best, father—"

"Your best leaves much to be desired. The scholars at the library have also informed me you're still reading those fanciful novels. That's time you could be dedicating to your studies."

Elain reeled back. "You even have the scholars spying for you?"

"As usual, your focus strays towards the unimportant," the High King grumbled. "I am their King. They are beholden to my word, the same as everyone else in Prythian. Including yourself. And as your King, I forbid you from wasting any more of your time on outside pursuits. No more reading, no more gardening, no more of these childish liberties I've humoured for much too long."

"But, Father—"

"Enough, Elain!" He barked. His voice rang through the antechamber, echoing off the walls in a refrain no less harsh than the first—enough, enough, enough. The King cleared his throat and said in a lower voice, "Now that the chosen hero has been discovered, you must master your ability. If you were hoping to shirk your responsibility off to the next generation—" Elain scoffed in protest— "I'm afraid that's no longer an option. Time is a luxury we cannot afford."

For a moment, the room fell into a silence so dense that it sucked all the air from the chamber, leaving Lucien's lungs burning as he fought to hold to his last swallow, not to let it pass his lips.

Elain's came out in one long, trembling exhale. She sounded close to tears when she stuttered, "I-I haven't been evading my responsibilities, Father. I spend hours in the Sanctuary every day, attempting to commune with the Goddess. She won't hear my prayers—"

"Then perhaps you are doing something wrong," the King suggested. "Maybe you have become too reliant on performing your devotions in the comfort of the castle. You've yet to make a pilgrimage to any of the sacred springs. With the Chosen Hero at your side, perhaps it is finally time."

Lucien waited for her protest. If she could hardly stand to be in the same room with him, he couldn't imagine her opinion would be improved at the prospect of spending days together travelling.

Her protest didn't come. Instead, she uttered two simple words in a voice so small he had to strain to hear them.

"Yes, father."

"Sir Lucien," the King called.

He tensed, not expecting to be addressed.

"Prepare a unit to accompany yourself and the princess to the sacred springs. You'll set off at dawn."

"Yes, Your Majesty," he breathed.

"You're dismissed."

With a solemn nod, Lucien withdrew from the throne room, intending to follow out the King's orders. The Princess remained, not yet dismissed, and for a moment, he felt such conflict over the idea of leaving her. Was he not meant to stay by her side at all times? An order was an order, but which one took precedence?

He knew the answer, even if he didn't like it. Even if he caught a glimpse of Elain's teary face as he was leaving, and felt it strike him harder than any blow she'd managed thus far. Like the sword at his back had come free from its scabbard and lodged into his spine.

It didn't take long to relay the King's orders at the gatehouse. By the time he returned, the throne room was empty and the princess had returned to her bedroom.

Having learned his lesson about assuming the princess was where she should be, Lucien pressed his ear to the door, listening for sounds of movement. What he heard instead was sobbing.

Lucien raised his knuckles to the door, then lowered them. He repeated the movement again and again, each time talking himself into knocking before his ambition was diffused at the thought of the princess slamming the door in his face. She wouldn't want to be comforted by him. He knew that.

But he thought he might have the capacity to comfort her, and that therefore he should at least try. Because he didn't see anyone else in line to do it.

The next time he gathered up the courage to knock, he didn't let himself think about it. His knuckles rapped against the wood, the sound reverberating with so much more certainty than he felt.

Elain's sobbing quieted. He heard a shuffle, followed by the sound of footsteps that carried to the other side of the door. She didn't open it, but he could sense she was just there, within breathing distance.

"What do you want?"

She was trying to sound petulant, he could tell. It came across far more defeated, like she imagined he was only there to rub her misery in her face.

It occurred to Lucien that after all that time spent warring over whether or not he should knock on her door, he hadn't considered what he would say to her once he succeeded.

"Go away," she said. "Or at least allow me to pretend you're not there."

There was no pretending. That was the problem. He was there, and her whole life had changed because of it. None of this pressure would be on her shoulders if he weren't standing on the other side of her door, trying to think of something to say in the face of all her displaced ire.

Dumbly, he asked, "What kind of books do you like?"

Her voice sharpened. "Are you serious?"

Lucien felt like an idiot the second he'd asked. At this rate, she really would believe he didn't know how to speak.

He said nothing, because wasn't that what she asked? To pretend like he doesn't exist? Although if he was being honest, he was refraining from speaking as much for his own benefit, since he didn't trust that he would be able to say something intelligent in that moment.

Eventually, Elain sighed. "I like romance novels. Not that it matters. Didn't you hear? I'm forbidden from reading about anything except how to unlock my sealing powers. We shouldn't even be having this conversation since it's not in pursuit of that goal. It's the only thing I exist for, after all."

Her voice was ripe with bitterness. Lucien could understand it, given the sword at his back that he was destined to fall upon.

His next words were as much a surprise to him as they were to Elain.

"Wait here."

Her answering huh? was undignified of a royal, and it filled him with a strange pang of affection.

"You're leaving?" She asked. He heard a shuffle, as if she was moving closer to the door.

"Just for a minute. To grab something from my room."

"What if I sneak out while you're gone?"

He huffed an amused breath through his nose. "I'll find you."

In her answering silence, he thought she was tempted to try, if only so she could prove him wrong. He shouldn't challenge her like that; it was only adding fuel to her temper. But part of him wanted to see if she would try, if she would rise to the challenge—if she would challenge him. So few people ever did.

Rather than wait for a response, Lucien crossed the short distance down the hall to his own bedchamber. Having lived in the barracks for so many years, he wasn't used to having private quarters, and therefore didn't have much in the way of possessions. But he did have the leatherbound novel his mother had gifted him when he left to train at the barracks at just six years old.

It was worn with love and time and the countless years of being shoved into a rucksack without a proper shelf to rest upon. A shabby thing to lend a princess, but it did have romance, and it didn't seem she was in a position to be picky.

When he returned, book in hand, the hallway outside the princess's chamber was silent. He slowed, listening for any sound of movement behind the wooden door. Did Elain decide to test her luck and slip away while he was gone? He was shaping up to be a pretty terrible guard, if so.

"Well?" The princess demanded through the closed door.

The corners of Lucien's mouth twitched. "I brought a book for you."

"So you can go run and tell my father that I'm not focusing on my studies?"

"Tell him that I helped you break his rules?" Lucien countered. "Why would I do that?"

"Because maybe it's a test."

Lucien didn't dignify that with a response. If she was curious—and he knew that she was—he liked to think that his silence would spur her into action. And sure enough, before long, she was grumbling something he couldn't make out that sounded suspiciously like resignation.

The door cracked open, just enough for her dainty hand to slip through. She spread her fingers in silent demand. He considered withholding the book until he heard a please or a thank you or any semblance of the manners a princess was rumoured to have.

He felt the world expected too much from her already, though. So he placed the book in her hand without expecting anything in return, even her kindness.

As soon as the book was in her grasp, Elain retreated back into the safety of her bedchamber, the door sealed shut between them. He waited as she observed the gift, imagining those slender fingers running over the worn cover, the damaged pages, the inscription from his mother, the same way his had a hundred times before.

Elain sniffled. Lucien paused, thinking she might say something—anything. Then she sniffled again, and he realized her tears had returned. He pressed an ear to the door and was met with soft, hiccuping breaths that splintered through him.

There was nothing else to say, no other comfort he could offer. So Lucien sat with his back against her door, listening to the princess cry until someone came to relieve him for the night watch.

Chapter Text

"Tell me the truth," Elain said, sitting primly atop her white mare, reins held loosely between her gloved fingers. "How proficient are you with that sword at your back?"

Lucien rode astride a black gelding, keeping pace with her at the front of their small company. The other guards kept a few feet behind, heads on a diligent swivel as they ventured through the eerie wood.

He swore the Master Swore heated across his back, as if it heard her question and demanded acknowledgement. Lucien only glanced at her, measuring her intent behind the question.

"Legend says that an ancient voice resonates inside of it," Elain said, fixing her inquisitive eyes on the hilt jutting over his shoulder. "Do you hear it yet?"

An ancient voice? Lucien frowned, recalling that awful vibration he'd felt when he discovered she was missing from her room, the way the metal had scalded him. While it seemed capable of communicating, he'd yet to hear it speak. Was that a shortcoming of his, or simply a misinterpretation of the legends?

He didn't want to share that with her. In case he should be able to hear the sword, and revealing that he couldn't would further her doubts. Lucien had already stayed awake the night before, staring at the ceiling above his bed while he wondered if he'd only managed to pull the sword through some fluke, that he was being praised as the Chosen Hero when it should really be someone else.

The guards keeping pace behind them, knights he had trained with since he was a boy, all looked at him as if he were now something other. A god among men. Overnight, he'd been promoted and titled Champion of the Realm when he had yet to accomplish anything to deserve the accolade.

If Calamity did rise tomorrow, what if it squashed him like a bug? What if he were as unremarkable as any other male in Prythian, trussed in the invisible armour of pomp and ceremony that would leave the whole of Prythian exposed?

Elain stared at him like she could already see through all of it. Still waiting for an answer. When he shrugged, she made a disgruntled sound in the back of her throat.

"I can't believe that I'm the one accused of not taking my duties seriously."

The Master Sword hummed. He almost thought it was agreeing with her.

"How are you finding the book?" Lucien asked, desperate for a topic of conversation that didn't center on their impending doom.

"You didn't tell me the romance was about a knight and a princess," she said dryly. "A tad trite, don't you think? Were you trying to tell me something?"

It didn't dawn on him, until that moment, what the implications of giving that book to her would be. Did she think it was some hidden fantasy of his? He glanced at her, horrified that she would draw that conclusion.

But then she laughed. The same bright, radiant sound he'd heard in her room the day before. Like a ringing bell. His lips parted in astonishment as she raised a hand to cover her mouth, still giggling.

"I was teasing you," she said, smothering another laugh. "My, the look on your face. It's reassuring to know you aren't entirely made of stone."

Lucien tightened his grip on the reins. Until a few days ago, that was the last thing anyone would accuse him of being.

"I read the inscription from your mother," she said, voice softer. "You were truly only six when you came to live at the castle?" When he nodded, her voice grew softer still. "That's so young."

"My brothers already lived in the barracks," he said with another shrug. He would have preferred if they hadn't been there, but it wasn't exactly the wistful story she was painting of a child leaving his family too soon.

"Yes, the seven Vanserra Knights. It was all my ladies in waiting liked to talk about."

She looked away, glaring at the treeline with an intensity that prompted him to study her further. Was that… a blush growing on her cheeks? Sunlight dappled through the leaves overhead, smattering across her creamy skin in a kaleidoscope of sun spots. It made it hard to determine if it was truly a blush or just a trick of the light.

"What if…" She said, quietly. "After you were sent to the castle, what if you realized you weren't meant to be a fighter? If it was all anyone ever expected of you, because you were born into a family of knights, so you had no choice but to become one as well? If at as young as six, that choice had never been made for you, would your path have been different?"

Lucien didn't usually like to entertain hypothetical questions. There were any number of theoretical ifs that could have occurred to throw him off this path. He could almost map them, all those critical moments that led to sitting atop his horse, beside her own.

What if his mother had decided she wasn't ready to let him go? What if he'd stayed with her an extra year or two, had fallen behind on his training, and hadn't been able to master the seven points of agility required for knighthood? Or what if he'd been injured on the expedition to the Bog of Oorid, where they'd found the Master Sword embedded in stone, and had been left in the camp while the others tried to pull it free?

If he wasn't a knight, if he wasn't a swordsman, what would he be?

"What is a bird without its wings?" He asked.

Elain's brows merged together. She looked to be considering the question very carefully, and he was about to tell her that it wasn't meant to be a riddle when she proposed, "Easy pray?"

He laughed, startled. "I was just going to say that it's not a bird."

"Right," she said bashfully. "So the boy who found a different path and never became a knight, you're saying he wouldn't be you, but someone else entirely?" She gripped the reins tighter, looking down as if disappointed by that answer. "I suppose if your purpose is aligned with who you are, that makes sense."

And your purpose isn't? He wasn't brave enough to ask.

It didn't make sense. Being a warrior was in his veins, but not to the same degree that Elain's purpose was in hers. She was the goddess's own blood and flesh. There was no separating her power from who she was—it would be with her whether she was a scholar or a fighter or a princess or a peasant. It didn't matter. She was a slab of clay that could take any shape she desired.

"What if none of the choices that led us here were our own?" He asked, causing Elain to glance up at him with those big brown eyes. "Everything happens exactly the way the Mother intends it, isn't that right?"

Lucien was proud he managed to make the question sound sincere, despite not believing the words himself. If they were all just pieces being moved about on the Mother's grand strategy board, then he had trouble trusting that her plans were benevolent. Why allow Calamity to rise at all, if that was the case?

"Of course," Elain said, devout as always. "We are all walking the path she has laid out for us. Though sometimes it would be nice to have clarity on the direction its leading. At present it feels like stumbling through the dark."

"Perhaps you'll find the clarity you seek at the Spring of Courage," he said.

Elain lips were pursed tight. "Perhaps."

-

They made camp that night on the border of the Winter Court. Ordinarily they would winnow to their destination, but the rites of the sacred springs demanded pilgrimage without any magical assistance, which made their journey all the more treacherous.

Outside of the castle grounds—which sat proudly in the center of Prythian, atop its sacred mountain—the Middle was host to many ancient, mysterious creatures that even the High King lacked jurisdiction over.

Lucien could hear them scuttling through the underbrush of the surrounding forest. Most of them wouldn't bother coming closer if it meant a fight. Most of them. He kept the fire high just in case, to ward them off and to keep their camp lit, so he could track every flicker of movement.

He liked to avoid making camp in the uncharted territories of the middle, when possible. But Elain was required to wear her ceremonial dress during her pilgrimage, which was a laughably thin panel of white fabric that fastened around her neck and left her arms, shoulders, and legs completely exposed to the elements. It wouldn't suitable for a day trip to the Autumn Court, let alone an inhospitable winter tundra.

After a humble meal of travel rations—which Elain ate with surprisingly little complaint—he helped the other guards assemble the tents and made sure to build hers closest to the fire. He gave Elain his share of the furs, since he wouldn't be sleeping in a tent tonight, and nicked an extra one from the guards' supply. Sir Graysen narrowed his eyes when Lucien explained that they must have miscounted, but no one challenged him.

He held that kind of authority now.

"You're not sleeping?" Elain asked when she took stock of the tents and realized they were down a number.

"Someone has to keep watch."

"In shifts though, right?" She frowned and gestured towards the tents for the other guards. "That's what they're here for."

Lucien nodded, because otherwise he expected she would argue with him. Regardless of whether one of the other knights came to relieve him, he knew he would be staying awake. The Master Sword hummed at his back, affirming his decision.

"So why don't you have a tent?" Elain pressed.

He quirked a brow as if to ask, Does it matter to you?

Her cheeks went pink. "I don't know why I still bother asking you questions," she said, throwing her hands up in frustration. But having witnessed a few of her outbursts by now, Lucien thought there was something distinctly exaggerated about the movement. "Sleep on the ground. See if I care."

With a flick of her wrist, she threw aside the tent flap, allowing it to flutter shut behind her as her farewell for the night. Nearby, one of the guards let out a low whistle, having overheard the exchange. A tent flap rustled, followed by a flurry of hushed voices.

Lucien sighed. When they returned to the castle, there was sure to be talk about how much the princess loathed her appointed knight. He could already picture his brothers' smug faces, relishing in the rumours that would tarnish his new, shiny reputation.

Not that he cared much about what the other knights thought of him. It had mattered to him before, when his troubles and worries had all been evenly balanced. After pulling the master sword, the worries that occupied him now all skewed towards life and death.

Was it going to kill him or Elain? If not, then he didn't have the capacity to worry about it anymore.

So let them talk. They could decide whatever they wanted about him. It wouldn't stray his eyes from the surrounding wood, or move him from his position outside the princess's tent.

As long as her heart was beating, he had to be doing something right.

Chapter Text

Predator or prey, if there was any creature within a 50-mile radius of their traveling party, it could track their exact location by merely following the sound of Elain's chattering teeth.

"Here."

Lucien, not for the first time, extended a bottled tincture towards Elain. Its base ingredient, warm safflina, contained heating properties that could take the edge off the Winter Court's arctic chill.

As a Vanserra, a family renowned for their fire magic, he naturally maintained a higher body heat and resistance to cold. And even he needed to take a tincture after they'd crossed the Winter Court border.

But Elain, not for the first time, pushed the bottle away with the flat of her palm.

"I already t-told you, I'm not permitted to eat or d-drink anything from sunrise t-to sundown. I n-need to fast so the Mother Goddess will c-convene with me."

He clenched his teeth. "And if you freeze to death before we get there?"

She huffed, puffing a cloud of her obstinance into the frozen air. "As if you're in a-any state to lecture me. D-did you sleep at all last night?"

Lucien bit his tongue. His patience felt thinner today, and the lack of sleep wasn't helping. Nor was Elain's refusal to betray the scriptures of the prayer rituals by any means, even if that meant returning to the castle with a few less fingers and toes.

"Your lips are turning blue," he pointed out.

She tipped her chin. "That's a f-f-fashionable shade in the Winter C-Court."

"At least put on a cloak."

When Elain ignored him, he thought heating the air around her would be a fair compromise. She clocked it within seconds, sending him a scathing glare before she dug her heels into the sides of her mare so she could ride ahead. For once, he didn't urge his gelding to keep pace, for fear that if he stayed close to the princess, he'd lose his temper and do something inappropriate. Like wrestle her into a fucking cloak.

"The two of you bicker like a married couple," Sir Andras said, heading up the rear.

Lucien cast him a long-suffering look.

Ignoring his foul mood, as everyone seemed inclined this morning, Andras nudged, "Can we expect the nuptials before or after the rise of Calamity?"

Suddenly, keeping pace with the princess seemed a far more attractive option.

"Best do it before," chimed Sir Bron. "Otherwise, there's no promise you'll live to enjoy the wedding night. You don't want to miss out on that."

"Do you think she calms down in bed?" Sir Graysen asked. "Or does she become even more demanding?"

"Oh, I'll bet she enjoys being told—"

"Enough," Lucien snapped. Up ahead, he watched Elain pull at her reins in surprise, jumping at the rise in his voice.

She was still in fucking earshot.

He took a moment to rein in his anger, grinding his teeth together as he calculated what to do, how to respond. Elain was technically in command of this unit, but until she gave a formal order, the knights would defer to him.

Lucien glanced towards the princess, expecting her to address their collective insolence, to dictate their punishment the way any proud royal would. He hadn't participated in the conversation—at least, not willingly—but he hadn't reprimanded them as soon as he should have, either.

But the princess was fiddling inside one of the satchels strapped to her saddle, pretending she hadn't heard. The angle hid her face behind a curtain of golden brown hair, making it impossible to gauge her expression. Why wasn't she saying anything when she'd clearly been listening?

"Scout ahead," he bit out. "All of you. Make sure the path to the spring is clear, then find a suitable place to make camp. One with a shelter. Go."

With a light amount of grumbling at having their fun spoiled, the knights obeyed his command, kicking up a cloud of snow as they galloped past. Lucien waited until they were swallowed in the swirling flurries ahead to rejoin the princess.

He waited for her to acknowledge the conversation. Or to at least plead ignorance by asking where the guards were going, why he'd sent them off. She said nothing, refusing to so much as look in his direction as they rode side by side.

Whatever progress they'd managed to make yesterday—with the book and the laughter and the somewhat civilized conversation—he couldn't help feeling it had all been undone.

But since he had nothing else to lose in the princess's regard for him, and since she presented an opening by keeping her gaze fixed on the horizon, Lucien decided to unclasp his cloak and sling it over her shoulders.

Elain gasped, but he was already moving away before she could protest or attempt to fling the cloak back at him.

"I-I'm only s-supposed to wear the ceremonial garb," she said, drawing the cloak tighter despite herself.

The sword was humming its approval, which was all the confirmation Lucien needed to say, "I think the Mother will forgive you."

And if she didn't, then Lucien thought that perhaps she wasn't worth praying to.

-

The Spring of Courage rested at the peak of the Winter Court's sacred mountain. It took the greater part of the afternoon to ascend the long, spiralling path on horseback, and by the time they arrived, the sun was kissing the horizon.

Blood orange light poured over the large, circular pool, glinting off the slabs of glacial ice that arced out of the spring like great, frozen sea creatures. A statue of the Mother Goddess rose out of the waters, as large and wide as a castle turret. Her stone arms were spread towards the heavens, casting the illusion that she was holding up the sky.

Her shadow blotted out the lingering warmth of the sun, and Lucien swore the air grew ten degrees colder as he stepped into the circle of white stone that comprised the entrance to the spring. Ice and hardened snow crunched under his boots as he went to crouch at the water's edge, reaching through the frost curling off its surface to feel the temperature.

Elain yanked him back with surprising force.

"You're not allowed to enter the spring!" She hissed as he scrambled to catch himself. "You haven't followed the p-proper rituals!"

Regaining his balance, Lucien withdrew from the edge, but still cast an accusing eye over the water. "Are you sure this is safe? The water looks too cold."

Elain rolled her eyes. "That's why it's the Spring of Courage. I must sacrifice my comfort to the Goddess as a sign of my devotion." When she could tell that didn't convince him, she gestured towards the shining glaciers and added, "Besides, it's not as cold as it l-looks. The waters are imbued with magic that keeps the spring warm enough to continue f-flowing."

Lucien nodded, because what else could he do? He didn't like this, but he couldn't tell her not to continue with the ceremony. She was following the High King's orders, and the King seemed convinced this was necessary to unlock her sealing magic.

He couldn't decide if that's what Elain believed, too. She'd dedicated herself to following the rituals with unwavering precision, and cited her devotion to the Mother Goddess whenever she was questioned. But sometimes she sounded more as though she were reciting a mantra than speaking with conviction.

Even now, she wore an expression of such grim determination as she unfastened his cloak, letting it drop to the stone floor.

"Turn around," she said, approaching the stone steps that led into the water. "You can stay in the p-perimeter, but you mustn't speak or interrupt until I've finished my d-devotions. Understood?"

In answer, Lucien turned around, listening to the soft lapping sounds of the water as she entered. He wondered if the rite demanded there be no observers, or if it was a request made for her own comfort. He could imagine the way her ceremonial dress would float around her in the water, how it might cling to her body, turning translucent.

The Master Sword rumbled at his back, ending that train of thought before he lost focus.

"Great Mother Goddess," Elain whispered. "I c-come seeking your g-guidance on the power you have passed down to your b-bloodline. Please, hear my p-prayer and lead me with your w-w-wisdom."

She then commenced an endless string of prayer, some of which was recited in a tongue Lucien couldn't understand. All of it was spoken between chattering teeth, the sound of which grew louder and more concerning the longer she knelt in the water.

Ten minutes in, he began to fidget, and the Master Sword was thrumming its discontent. She'd told him not to interrupt, but he could hear her words beginning to slur, one into the next. She could barely make it through a full sentence. Surely, she'd sacrificed enough of her comfort to prove her devotion?

He didn't understand how this worked, all the rituals and prayers and ceremonies. It all seemed a bit performative to him. Would the goddess really withhold Elain's power if she didn't follow the instructions in those ancient books to the exact letter? It seemed to Lucien that's what Elain had been doing all this time, and clearly it wasn't effective, so why was everyone deciding that the fault was Elain's and not these absurd practices?

"G-G-Gr—Great… M… M—"

Elain's voice tapered off in a garbled slur of syllables, followed by a splash that sent Lucien spinning toward her.

"Elain!"

The Princess had collapsed forward into the water, hands still clasped in prayer. Swearing under his breath, Lucien vaulted himself over the edge of the spring, sending water skywards with each furious step as he raced to reach her side. She was still breathing when he hauled her up, but her skin was ice cold, and her face had lost most of its color.

He scooped her into his arms, rising them out of the spring in a rush of freezing water. She'd been right, at least, that the water was warmer than the surrounding air—its sting was so much sharper now that they were soaked. He wished he had the forethought to remove his clothes before diving after her. The guards had ridden off with their camping supplies, so the only dry material they had was the cloak she'd taken off before she went in.

But first, he needed to get her out of that Cauldron cursed dress.

"I'll need to start praying to the Mother after this," he muttered, pulling the master sword from his back. "I promise I'm doing my best not to look."

She was going to be furious with him anyhow. Either for ruining the dress, or seeing her disrobed, or most likely both. He tried to keep the position of his hands and eyes strictly clinical, holding the fabric taught while he cut through it, careful not to touch her skin.

All the heat in his body rose to his face. He desperately needed it elsewhere, like in his fingertips, but was grateful it was staying above the belt. He was too mortified by what the princess would think to find any gratification in the sight of her naked body.

Averting his eyes, he peeled the scraps of wet fabric away and placed her carefully in his cloak, bundling it tight around her. Then he stripped his own wet tunic off and pulled the princess tight against his chest as he raced back to their horses.

There were still a few spare tinctures in his riding pouch. He downed one, but saved the rest for Elain. He'd need to wait until she was conscious to give her one, so his best bet now was finding shelter and getting her warm. Mother knew where the other guards had decided to make camp.

After tying their horses together, he found a small cave halfway down the mountain. He ensured it was clear of any occupants before wedging himself and Elain at the farthest end. Against his instinct to keep an eye on the entrance, he used his body to shield Elain from the cold, summoning the fire of his bloodline to warm the space around them in incremental steps.

He kept his arms fastened around her shoulders, her head limp against his bare chest as he counted her shallow breaths. With nothing else to occupy his frantic mind, his thoughts kept hitching on his anger, over and over again:

Is this what the High King wanted?

Can't he see what he's doing to his own daughter?

Doesn't he understand this will destroy her before the Calamity even has a chance?

They were dark, bitter thoughts that he knew were dangerous to get stuck on. He held her fragile body closer, wishing he understood why they were approaching this issue with such single-mindedness. Wishing he could say, or do, anything to stray them off this path.

It was wrong.

Was he the only one who could see that?

Elain shifted in his arms, eyelids fluttering. He held his breath, noting with relief that some of the color had returned to her cheeks. She opened her eyes, peering up at him through long, slitted lashes.

"Lucien?"

The tincture was in his hand before she'd taken her next breath. He pushed his thumb up to pop the cork, then placed the rim on her lips.

"Drink this. It will help."

In a rare show of obedience, Elain swallowed the tincture without question. He could see her eyes darting around the cave, taking stock of their surroundings, at their lack of clothing, at the concern he was sure he wore openly.

When the tincture was empty, he took his time setting the bottle aside, anxiously awaiting a slew of accusations. Why did you undress me? Why aren't you wearing a shirt? Where are the other guards?

Her voice was weak and quiet, and struck him like a bolt to the chest. "It didn't work?"

Lucien was too baffled to respond. That's what she cared about? She almost died! But her face crumpled, and her eyes looked so defeated that he didn't share what he was really thinking—Who cares if it didn't work? At least you're alive.

He caressed the back of her head, stroking slow, soothing patterns into her scalp. "There are still two other springs," he said.

"Right," she whispered, eyes filling with tears. "I still have two more chances to prove myself."

He only hoped they would both survive it.

Chapter Text

Once the princess was brought to a stable temperature and Lucien determined she was no longer at risk of losing any digits, they were presented with a new, decidedly uncomfortable issue:

Their lack of clothing.

"The High Lord of Winter has a residence not far from here," Lucien suggested. "I could winnow us there."

"The pilgrimage is supposed to be made on foot," Elain argued, studiously looking anywhere except his bare chest.

He hadn't removed his arms, still cradling her, and she hadn't asked him to. As far as Lucien was concerned, she needed the body heat, even if that meant torturing himself with the press of her smaller body against his. They'd been travelling for almost two days now, and she still smelled pleasantly of jasmine and honey—how did she manage it?

Those distracting thoughts clung to him like cobwebs, but he did his best to shake them off. To keep focus. "We'll winnow back here once we have suitable clothing. It will be like we never strayed off the path."

Did that still count? He could see Elain puzzling over that very same question. Her tutors had likely advised against exploiting loopholes in the scriptures, but he couldn't imagine they'd advocate for riding naked through the plains of the Winter Court. After sundown, no less.

"You winnow," Elain suggested. "You're not beholden to the rituals. I can wait here until you return with clothing."

Lucien gritted his teeth. "I'm not leaving you here alone."

"I won't be alone." Elain gestured to the horses waiting outside the cave. "I have Storm and… forgive me, what is your horse's name?"

"Rhea."

"Right. Storm and Rhea will keep me company."

"Absolutely not."

She huffed. "My, you're bossy all of the sudden."

"You almost died," Lucien said, hearing his voice was too sharp, but unable to soften it. "My one, singular responsibility is to keep you alive. I can't let you go outside in your current state, nor can I leave you by yourself in the wild."

Elain leaned back, studying his face. "But the scriptures—"

"Won't matter if you're dead!" He snapped, resisting the urge to shake her. "Prythian will be no better off if you kill yourself trying to unlock your magic."

Her face hardened. "At least I'm trying!" She struggled to sit up, baring her teeth in his direction. "At least if I die, I'll know I did everything I could! Better that than to be known as the Princess to a throne of nothing. The one who sat back and watched while Calamity destroyed the world."

Her carefully groomed hair had become a wet, tangled mess, sticking to her neck and the sides of her face. With her cheeks and nose still red from the cold, and her eyes splotched with tears, the agony of holding her—naked—in his arms became all the more severe. And instead of savoring the sight of her, he was arguing.

"Is that what you want?" Lucien snarled. "To take the easy way out and die a hero, so you don't have to face the Calamity and risk failing when it matters most? Let it rend the world to ash and have us deal with the aftermath?"

The princess's eyes widened, and he thought he might have struck too close, too deep. She tried to scramble out of his arms, but he caught her, dragging her into smoke and shadow until they emerged on the other side. In a palace of ice that was unburdened by cold.

"Get off of me!" She cried, pushing him away.

Lucien let his arms fall, obediently stepping aside.

Elain kept one arm clutched tightly around the cloak, keeping it from revealing her exposed body beneath. With the other, she slammed a fist into his chest.

"How could you?" Her eyes were shining with tears. "The pilgrimage is ruined!"

"It was already ruined," he pointed out. "You didn't finish the prayer. And I entered the spring."

She turned away, covering her face. "Go."

"What?"

"Go back and get the horses," she said, her voice firmer. "Find the other guards and tell them where I am."

"I'm not leaving—"

"Princess Elain?"

They both turned to see a tall male with white hair approaching them, accompanied by a pair of guards on either side. The High Lord of Winter. Elain quickly dashed her tears on the side of Lucien's cloak, then tilted her chin up.

"We're not in the wild anymore," she said. There was a disturbing vacancy to the way she spoke, reminiscent of the unflinching tone of the High King. "There are guards here to protect me. You're dismissed, Sir Lucien."

The Master Sword trembled in its scabbard, but Lucien ignored it and bowed his head. "Yes, Your Highness."

-

It took all night for Lucien to find where the other guards made camp—a stable, about halfway to the Winter Court capital. The stable was clearly built for travelers, intended as a place of respite for those traversing the wide winter plains, as there were no caves or other means of shelter for miles.

Lucien left Storm and Rhea in the heated stable, grateful to let them rest with access to food and water while he finally had the chance to sleep.

"Where's the princess?" Sir Graysen asked when Lucien collapsed onto the bed beside him—the one which had clearly been left for her, if the pile of furs and pillows was any indication.

He was too tired to answer. At some time in the night, an exhausted weariness had settled in his bones, making them feel heavier. Stiffer. The Master Sword hadn't stopped protesting since the moment he left Elain. When he took it off, he thought he would be relieved to be free of it, but felt oddly as though he were missing a limb.

The world was too quiet. The static in his head had dissipated, and instead there was… nothing.

Nothing wasn't good. Nothing gave him too much time to think.

Was Elain safe? Would she forgive him? What if Calamity rose tomorrow and he wasn't at her side?

He didn't know how long those thoughts swirled in his mind before he drifted off, but he knew that when he was shaken awake the next morning by Sir Andras, it felt as if he'd only just shut his eyes.

"Lucien," Andras said. "Where's the princess?"

"High Lord's Palace," he mumbled. "Need to meet her."

"What happened at the spring?"

There was no way he was getting into that with any of the knights. Not after their commentary on the princess the day prior. When he didn't answer, Andras sighed.

"Will you at least tell me what happened to your shirt?"

Lucien had been so exhausted that he'd actually forgotten he wasn't wearing one. "I prefer to sleep like this." It was only a partial lie. "Grab me a new one, will you?"

While it wasn't a full night's sleep, Lucien could admit he felt better having rested. His mind was clearer, and he was already wishing he could re-attempt the last 24 hours. Approach it differently, and emerge with the princess's health and trust still intact. As it were, all Lucien could do was push the knights to travel quickly, making up lost time to arrive at the High Lord's palace by midday.

He had visited the residence a few times during his training. The High King's regiment of knights was comprised largely of High Lord sons and other High Fae with ties to nobility. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement—the High Lords would send their sons to accrue recognition in the service of the High King for a few centuries, and in exchange, the High King would dispatch his units for any number of disturbances within each of the seven territories.

Over the years, Lucien had been dispatched to the Winter Court to assist with various missions—a migoi sighting in the mountains being the most exciting. Though the time he and Tamlin were tasked with herding escaped yaks was not without its amsuements.

It was as Lucien was musing over that memory, feeling a stab of longing for a time when his only concern had been returning to the castle without yak-sized bites taken from his uniform surcoat, that he caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision.

He held up a hand, signalling the other knights to come to a halt. At his back, he heard the bright, tinny song of metal as the knights drew their swords.

"Weapons down," he said, dismounting. "Wait here."

"What is it?" Andras called, but Lucien was already giving chase through the snow.

-

Hours later, Lucien rapped his knuckles against the door to the suite of rooms the princess was staying in.

"Who is it?" She called.

He hesitated, knowing if he said his name, he'd be turned away.

Unfortunately, his silence was just as incriminating.

"Go away, Lucien."

He'd have to do his best to convince her, then. "I have a surprise for you."

"Another book?"

No. He hadn't thought of that, though in a palace that was sure to have a few libraries, perhaps he should have.

"Open the door," he said. "It would be better to show you."

He needed to survey the room, anyway. This was unfamiliar territory, and he felt antsy keeping the princess out of sight. The palace seemed secure enough, but it wasn't nearly as fortified as the castle.

The silence stretched, leaving Lucien taut, a bowstring moments from snapping and just breaking down the damn door himself.

Then it opened. The princess stood before him, finally adequately dressed for the weather in a velvet long-sleeved dress, complete with a fur-trimmed cloak clasped over her shoulders. He never thought he'd feel so ecstatic to see a female buried in layers of clothing.

"What is it?" She asked with a prim, upturned sniff.

Lucien grinned. "Hold out your hands."

She watched him through distrusting eyes, but cupped her hands together regardless. "If it's something disgusting, I'll stab you with that sword," she warned.

"I know."

With exacting caution, Lucien reached into the satchel he'd borrowed from Sir Bron. "Close your eyes," he added, before gently removing the small, fluffy creature. The princess jolted when he placed it in her hands, and her eyes immediately snapped open to stare with parted lips at the white rabbit before her.

"It's Nelly," he said.

Her lower lip began trembling.

Lucien swallowed past the thickness in his throat, saying lightly, "You mustn't cry every time I give you a present. I'll start to think you don't like them."

For once, it was Elain who was at a loss for words. With an unladylike sniffle, she brought the rabbit protectively to her chest, stroking it fondly between the ears.

"May I come in?" Lucien asked. "I need to make sure Nelly's the only intruder."

Elain nodded numbly, stepping aside as she continued holding the rabbit like nothing else mattered more. He didn't think when he caught the rabbit that he'd grow jealous of the damn thing, but it was clear the princess was completely enamoured with it.

It made him brave enough to ask, "Am I forgiven?"

She didn't answer, but as she settled on the bed with the rabbit cradled delicately in her lap, he thought he might be.

Chapter Text

"You're right, you know."

Lucien turned his head towards the princess. He wasn't used to those words coming out of her mouth, and he expected he would not be hearing them again any time soon.

"About what?" he asked.

It was getting late, and he was still lingering in her suite of the High Lord of Winter's palace. There were guards stationed outside the room, ready to relieve him so he could actually take a full night's rest, but he couldn't quite find it in himself to leave her.

He'd stayed longer than he should have, perched against the far wall to keep watch while the princess idly stroked Nelly and leaned over the book he'd lent her. Fire flickered in the hearth, casting palettes of orange and gold across her visage with nothing short of admiration. Lucien couldn't help his eyes from lingering on those places where the firelight gleamed against her skin, wondering how soft it would feel against the backs of his fingers.

She was so lovely it made his teeth ache.

Fortunately, his staring could be discredited for vigilance, and Elain ignored it all the same, her brown eyes eager as they flitted over the pages of her book. At some point she'd taken to reading aloud, and he'd let her voice carry him to a different world, where the hero knight's largest concern was his forbidden love for the princess he guarded.

If only that were the extent of Lucien's worries.

So when the princess paused to share her thought about how he was right, he was struck with a very strange and foolish fear that she could read his mind. That he was right to think falling in love with the princess would be a trivial concern, all things considered.

"The crying," she answered, dismissing his fears without realizing it. She looked down at the rabbit and sighed, scratching it gently between its long, upright ears. "I've been doing too much of it lately. It isn't as if my sorrows will improve our situation."

Lucien tensed. He'd made that joke to lighten the mood, not to dismiss her feelings.

"You're allowed to feel sorrow, princess."

Elain shook her head. "You're being kind, but these troubles are not the sort of flames I can douse by weeping. I dread to say it, but my father's right. And so were you. I need to start taking this more seriously."

The last person he wanted to be compared to was her father. But how could he explain that to her without betraying his newfound anger for the High King? He and Elain may have shared that anger, but only one of them was entitled to it.

Choosing his words carefully, Lucien said, "You endangered your life yesterday. I dread to think how you can get more serious than that."

She was looking at Nelly, which was no different than she'd been doing since the moment he gave her the rabbit, but there was a shift in her intensity that made him wonder if she trying not to look at him.

"It's as you said." Her voice was quiet. Thoughtful. "If I let myself die before the Calamity arrives, I'll only be doing so out of fear. I need to face my destined path, even if I fail while every eye in Prythian is upon me. If I'm remembered as the princess who let the world down, so be it."

Lucien swallowed. He didn't know if it would be a comfort to her—in fact, he suspected it would be the opposite—but he said, "You know I'll be beside you either way, princess. We either both win, or we both fail. We'll be remembered together, no matter our fates, so the blame won't only rest with you."

At last, she looked up. Not to him, but to the hilt of the Master Sword poking over his back. He could tell because it began singing beneath her appraisal like a preening bird.

Her smile was sad. "Even so, everyone knows that without my sealing magic, your sword is useless. No one expects you to hold off the calamity indefinitely. If you're overcome, it will be because your princess failed you."

His princess. He tried not to get stuck on that. She was everyone's princess, technically.

"What…" He felt stupid for even asking this. It would only show her how little he knew, how ill-prepared he was for this role. But maybe that's what she needed to know—that she wasn't the only one who had no idea what they were doing. "What is the Calamity, exactly?"

From the moment he pulled the sword, everyone just assumed that he knew the prophecy and the legends. He knew some of them—the most glorified of them, and the rest he'd strung together through patchwork stitches of context and off-handed remarks.

"Is it a person?" He continued when she stared at him, her mouth parted open. "A beast? Some sort of magical curse?"

"You're teasing me," she said, the corners of her lips splitting into a smile. Then she giggled. "You almost had me for a moment, but I'm starting to catch on to your antics."

Lucien shifted. His face was starting to grow hot, and he wondered if he should just play this off so he didn't look completely incompetent in front of her.

When the princess noticed his discomfort, her grin fell. He watched her brows knit together until they formed a thin crease in the middle. "You truly don't know the stories?"

"I know the gist of them," he said, feeling a bit defensive. "Good versus evil, light versus dark. They just sound like stories, though. The kind you tell children to get them to behave. Y'know, clean your teeth or the Calamity will snatch you."

Elain's mouth twitched. He thought she wanted to smile, but when those pink lips parted open, the sigh that escaped them spoke of the same bone-weary heaviness that rested across his back.

"The last Great Calamity was 10,000 years ago, so I suppose all we have are stories. Who knows how many details have been embellished as the centuries passed? It could be that our entire understanding of the Calamity is false." She looked out towards the window, her eyes so distant it was as if she was staring towards a place far outside the Winter Court. "Those stories say that a creature of pure malice rose from the ocean and threatened the whole of Prythian. It was vanquished by a knight wielding the Master Sword and a princess blessed with the Mother's sacred bloodline. Our past lives, if the legends are true."

Lucien nodded as he digested this information. It wasn't much different from the stories he'd already heard. "So then, the Calamity is a beast? A sea creature?"

"There's a tapestry on display in the library of the castle, have you ever seen it?" When Lucien shook his head, she said, "It's the only preserved account from that time. It depicts the Hero and Princess defeating a great, horned serpent."

"A dragon?"

Elain hummed. Not quite agreement. She clearly wasn't content with that description, but he guessed it was the closest they could get.

When her gaze drifted toward the book, and she seemed to wince at whatever thought crossed her mind, it dawned on him.

He couldn't keep the smile from spreading across his as he regarded the book splayed open on the bed. "You mean, I'm destined to be a knight who slays a dragon? Like Sir Enalius?"

Elain cheeks went pink, and when she began sputtering in outrage, he knew he'd hit his mark. "Don't compare yourself to him!"

Lucien smirked. "Why's that? You find him dashing?" He jerked his chin toward the book. "You seem very absorbed in that story considering you called it—what was it?—trite?"

"It isn't as if there's anything else to keep me occupied!" Elain said with a huff. "You're about as much of a conversationalist as Nelly." He was about to joke that poor Nelly didn't deserve the insult when the princess threw her hands up in frustration. "And besides! It's the princess's role that has me enraptured. The idea of sitting in a tower and allowing you to do all the work in saving the world? Oh, the luxury."

She was joking, he could tell. Her voice was light, and she even offered him a hint of a smile.

For that reason alone, he didn't tell her that he would take the burden from her if he could. It wouldn't be a welcome declaration. Regardless of the pressure on her shoulders, he didn't think Elain had the heart to stand back while someone else bore the brunt of her responsibilities. He also didn't want to imply that he didn't think she could do it on her own—she heard it from everyone else, but she would never hear it from him.

"Speaking of saving the world, what's the plan now?" He asked, changing the subject. "The Spring of Courage didn't work. Do you still wish to make pilgrimage to the others?"

The Spring of Power was next, located in the heart of the Spring Court. At least that court was warm enough for her ceremonial dress, though he could do without the princess fasting herself while riding for hours on end.

Growing solemn, the princess nodded. "I don't know if the mother will hear my prayers at the other springs, particularly after my failure at the Spring of Courage. But I must try, or I don't know if I'll ever be able to face my father again."

Lucien didn't think he'd be able to face him, either. Not without the anger simmering through his veins, restrained only through years of careful practice in his composure. He wasn't certain it would hold if he witnessed the King slicing into his daughter with every one of her deepest insecurities.

"I have been thinking, though," she added in a quiet voice. As if she was nervous about sharing her thoughts. "About what will happen if I fail at the other springs. What will we do if Calamity rises and my magic is still inert?"

Lucien's fingers clenched, overcome with the inexplicable urge to feel the sword in his palm. Like feeling it hum against his skin might chase away the anxiety of that looming if. He wondered at it often himself, and all he knew was that he would fight until his very last breath, that he wouldn't let a single thing touch her until his heart stopped beating.

"Is that the way we should be thinking?" He asked. Like a hypocrite. "We haven't lost yet."

"We haven't," she agreed. "But we would be poor strategists if we placed all our fate in a horse that's never won a race. One that has always come last, in fact."

Unable to chide his superior, he hoped his glower got the point across. Don't talk about yourself that way.

Elain reached towards Nelly, stroking her over and over. Stalling, he thought. Trying to work up the courage to say, "I think we should consider other methods of sealing the Calamity. In case I fail. My father barred me from doing the research—he thought I was trying to eschew my sacred duty by finding a way to pass it onto someone else. But… I've read about the miracles that the seven High Lords can perform when their magics are combined. They already have the ability to create wards, and is that not a sealing power in its own way?"

"You want to ask the High Lords to fight against the Calamity?"

"By ours sides," she rushed to add. "It would not be in our place. It would be together. The Master Sword and goddess's bloodline, and the seven High Lords. Maybe that way if I fail, Prythain will not fall to ruin."

Or all seven High Lords would be killed, and Prythian would be flung into chaos as seven nascent High Lords rose in their place and scrambled to figure out how to protect their territories from the threat. He didn't share that line of thinking with her—what was the point? If the Calamity were that unstoppable, Prythian would be flung into chaos regardless.

"It's a decent plan."

Her eyes were so wide. It was the first time he thought he'd ever seen hope in them. "Really?"

"The High Lords may need some convincing," he hedged. "The High King as well."

Elain shook her head. "We mustn't tell my father. He'll never agree to it. If anything, he'll write to the High Lords and bar them from helping."

Convincing the High Lords was one thing. Asking them to do it against the High King's orders?

"In that case, it will be all the more difficult to persuade the High Lords." When her face fell, he sighed. "Difficult, but not impossible."

"I can't imagine it will feel any more impossible than unlocking my magic," she said. He could see a familiar stubborn determination creeping over her face. "But we'll have to try. We'll continue the pilgrimage and on the way, we'll meet with each of the High Lords."

Each of the High Lords. It would more than double their journey to stop in each Court. But it would also buy them some time before they had to report back to the High King with their progress at the Springs. He wondered if that wasn't partial motivation for the detour.

Lucien bowed his head despite the dread rising in the back of his throat.

"As you wish, your highness."