the endings of stories that were never told.
There’s a growl, and Lucien whips his head to Tamlin.
Cauldron.
“Everyone, get out,” Lucien orders, standing deadly still as he watches Tamlin struggle with himself, to keep that primal beast under control.
“Get out!” Lucien barks as the remaining occupants rush out, closing the door just in time for that beast to ripple to the surface.
Lucien wreathes himself in a circle of flame, daring the beast to come nearer.
It did.
Tamlin leapt over the circle and was met headfirst with another pulse of fire.
Tamlin roars as Lucien dances away nimbly.
It’s just another dance, a bull and a bullfighter.
Keep your head high, do not show your fear, his dance instructor had taught him.
Lucien sweats as the minutes turn into hours and he is still conjuring and dropping every single essence of him into the flame that kept him from being ripped to shreds, that kept the attention on him and not the others in the manor.
Hopefully most attendees would have left. The sentries on duty would not have, out of loyalty, however.
Which was why Lucien was doing this.
It could take days for Tamlin to snap out of it.
Lucien keeps Tamlin’s attention to him, makes him not even consider breaking down the doors or charging through windows.
Tamlin prowls around the cocoon of fire and light and ash.
He is Lucien Vanserra, 7th son of Beron and Hestia, High Lord and Warrior Consort, he has the power of the Cauldron-blessed in him, he has brought 2 of his brothers to their knees by the sheer force of willpower alone when they had tried to kill him, he has not been broken by Autumn, he has been loyal to Tamlin, he has had his eye gouged out by a monster and lived.
He has made his vows to the edge of the Autumn border to protect those who needed protection no matter the costs, no matter the blood and no matter the background.
The sentries would lay down their lives for him, and he would do so for them too.
And so Lucien continues his deadly dance with Tamlin, hoping that he would tire after a few hours or go somewhere to lick his wounds before seeking him out again.
-
Lucien is exhausted, he is bone-weary, the magical exhaustion seeping in as he spends the last of his burning embers on healing his wounds.
Tamlin, after 5 days, after tearing Lucien apart once he finally ran out of magic and energy and diversions, had cooled down.
Half the manor was trashed. Feyre’s bedroom was trashed.
Tamlin’s guilt and possessiveness could be smelt by even those not High Fae.
So when he got summoned to Tamlin’s study, he slowly dragged himself there, knees twinging, ankles barking and head pounding, Tamlin had pursed his lips and forced him to go back to bed for another day.
The servants had left a healing salve from Day, a rare one, for him that night, and the sentries had delivered it.
An endless loop of being beaten up for others and healing, one recognised by the ones most High Fae deemed “unworthy” and “lesser”.
Lucien had thought that the “lesser fae” were worth thousands of the many-faced royalty, as he rubbed them into his tender muscles and the smell of something citrus-y and fresh like what Day was usually associated with permeated the air.
-
Lucien watched dully as Feyre reunited with Tamlin and kissed him hard.
She smelt of relief, yet happiness tinged with sorrow.
And her bedroom, Lucien had visited her bedroom by the door to see if anything could be salvaged for Feyre as a welcome back gift.
There was nothing but a necklace and a bow she had kept from her hunting days, but he had left them in her new room anyways.
The smell of guilt and suffocation, sorrow, desperation had hit Lucien so hard he had doubled over choking.
He didn’t know if it was Tamlin or Feyre that left such scents, and didn’t think he would ever want to know.
And Lucien was snapped out of his thoughts as Tamlin ordered him over.
The information retrieval for an upper hand had begun.
-
Feyre gave her jewels to the water wraith.
Lucien nearly groans, very nearly decides to leave and knock his head on the door of his room over and over again until he eventually died from internal bleeding or something.
The dinner was going to be a very aggressive affair.
-
He was right.
And again, he was defending Feyre and Tamlin. And again, he was being torn apart and yanked to both sides. His High Lord and Lady Consort. His master and mistress.
When was life ever easy on him?
“She meant no harm Tam,” Lucien softly says.
Tamlin snaps back.
“Worse things have happened, worse things can happen. Just relax,” Lucien soothes, like how a bullfighter would keep away the red cloak and let the bull calm down, feed the bull and bring it out of the arena once the show was over.
Tamlin’s emerald eyes were feral as he snarled at Lucien, “Did I ask for your opinion?”
Lucien knows. He knows he should not back down, for Feyre’s sake. He could tell how much she was drowning, how much she felt for the plight of the water wraith.
Feyre thought Tamlin would let him get away with such insolence.
But the wrath in his eyes, no, Lucien was still not healed from the last encounter with the primal force under his skin. His powers were still half replenished, and if he had to hold off Tamlin while Feyre and the others were still here at half strength and half healed-
Lucien lowers his head in submission.
I serve you, my Lord
And Feyre doesn’t glare, she stares at him with those damning eyes, stares and stares with hate and resignation and despair-
Maybe he should have fought back, should have yanked on the chains binding him, maybe, just maybe, he should have ended it all, should have died under the mountain during Feyre’s trials. Maybe they were both just ghosts living in their immortal bodies.
Lucien blinks as Feyre staggers back. Odd, he thinks, narrowing his eyes at her as she stares back in horror at him or at Tamlin.
Feyre shifts from her right side to her left and her fingers curl, pinky tapping the table repeatedly.
A nervous tick.
But why?
Feyre leaves, Tamlin leaves.
Lucien pretends to not notice the handprints beneath Feyre’s napkin and pours some power into the wood to repair it.
-
Lucien waits. He waits in tense silence as he shadows Tamlin, beast yet again rippling at the surface.
He will protect the people living under this roof and beyond, even if he was collateral. It was the least he could do to honour the servitude between him and his High Lord, who would not doubt be in pain and guilt if anyone had been grievously injured or Mother-forbid, dead by his hands, or claws.
Lucien was walking by on his 523rd round around the level when he felt more than heard a wave of power emanate from a room.
Tamlin. Feyre.
Lucien feeds his power to a few security runes he had carved into the foundations of the manor as his magic clamps down on Tamlin’s.
It was an outright, blatant form of disobeying his orders as Emissary and friend. It was violating to repress magic.
But what could he do, when his life was at stake, when Feyre might very well be blasted to smithereens, when the other fae could very well be killed just for being around?
Lucien feels a second wave of magic flare up.
Feyre.
Lucien cuts off his magic from the runes and winces at the headache now forming.
He was not going to enjoy the next few days, he sighs as he slips away, wiping any trace of his scent and steps from the level, away from his Lord and Lady who were most likely still cooling down.
Feyre was going to snap, he could feel the fraying ends. He could feel the power in her, some small part of it making his own magic sing and toes curl. After all, Tamlin’s magic and his own ancestor’s was in Feyre.
Lucien was definitely not going to like this at all, no he wasn’t.