you ask, "who are we?"
Lucien was bloody exhausted.
Swearing was plebeian, his instructors had chided. Do not swear, it is demeaning.
Well, it was his life.
Hunting down some new creature that had apparently been one of Hybern’s experiments was not fun. He had some blue blood and guts on him, he, of course, was right in the bloody path of Tamlin when he had ripped apart the creature. And he, of course, got a showering of blessings.
He had spent some of his dregs of magic not used from fighting the creature that had literally absorbed his power like it was nothing to banish them away.
The essence still lingered, however, and it was disgusting.
Tamlin had left as the esteemed High Priestess had something to say “in private”.
Lucien enters the room when he spots Feyre.
He had barely opened his mouth when Feyre adopted a look of pure fear and panic at him and talons, freaking talons, had grown.
Lucien blinks.
The claws retract and Feyre looks shaken.
Lucien huffs out a breath and inclines his head, signalling for Feyre to follow him.
He clearly had to put off his well-deserved shower.
-
“How long have the claws been appearing?”
“That was the first time.” Feyre’s voice rang hollow and dull.
Lucien surveys Feyre. He had sided with his Lord the last time, but Feyre needed something to do.
She was a wolf, a huntress, she would never be content with pretty dresses and tea parties.
“There’s only so much I can do, but I’ll ask him tonight. About the training. The powers will manifest whether we train you or not, no matter who is around. I’ll ask him tonight,” Lucien repeats.
Lucien doesn’t bother saying that he would probably not be successful unless he wanted a death sentence.
Feyre looks at him in this odd mix of sorrow and resignation that makes his gut clench, but he had his duties, his vows to people still alive. Suffering for nothing. Like Feyre. Like Tamlin. Like Bron and Hart and Alis and his personal servant Kara and so many more.
He would not fail them by dying.
-
“They will hunt her and kill her,” Ianthe hisses, eyes flashing.
“They’ll do it anyway, so what’s the difference?” Lucien snarls back, vicious, letting her see the fire in him.
Ianthe bristles visibly. A sense of vindictiveness shoots through him.
The difference, Ianthe seethes, lies in us having the advantage of this knowledge—it won’t be Feyre alone who is targeted for the gifts stolen from those High Lords. Your children, she says to Tamlin, will also have such power. Other High Lords will know that. And if they do not kill Feyre outright, then they might realize what they stand to gain if gifted with offspring from her, too.
Lucien bites down on his tongue. Eris would no doubt like to parade around someone like Feyre, Dacian would try to tame her wild spirit. Kieran would destroy her, try to break her-
“If they were to do that, none of the other High Lords would stand with them. They would face the wrath of six courts bearing down on them. No one is that stupid,” Lucien counters.
Is this not merciful?
Clythia was the direct heir and descendent to the line of Light and Fire.
Your lover was a whore, you have failed the Vanserra family. I hereby strip you from your titles, boy, you clearly are still a child.
Rhysand is that stupid, Ianthe spits. And with that power of his, he could potentially withstand it. Imagine, she says, voice softening as she turns to Tamlin, a day might come when he does not return her. You hear the poisoned lies he whispers in her ear. There are other ways around it, she had added with such quiet venom. We might not be able to deal with him, but there are some friends that I made across the sea …
“We are not assassins. Rhys is what he is, but who would take his place—“ Lucien replies swiftly. If Beron was a nightmare, Keir was the monster of despair.
Who willingly sold their daughter like a broodmare to Eris of all Cauldron-damned people when Eris was already building his reputation?
“Just let her train, let her master this—if the other High Lords do come for her, let her stand a chance,” Lucien begs, begs Tamlin.
Please, went the unsaid phrase. She’s already dying, she’s withering away and this can keep her together, please.
“No,” Tamlin growls after contemplative silence, and Lucien did not wish to turn to Ianthe to see what he knew was triumph and fake relief on her insipid face.
Lucien’s ears pricked up at hearing Feyre go up the steps, away.
Yes Feyre, please leave, get out, be free before Tamlin’s storm starts up-
Ianthe had floated over beside him and smiled at him.
Lucien ignores him.
He needed this, she needed this, how could Tamlin be so blind, she was falling apart and no one was doing anything-
“We give them no reason to suspect she might have any abilities, which training will surely do. Don’t give me that look, Lucien,” Tamlin ground out.
And suddenly Lucien was angry.
Fire was in his blood, it was his and his alone to command, Lucien thinks as his flames grow higher and higher and turns shatters the tank Caliban and Aiden had thrown him in-
Tamlin snarls and Lucien falls to his knees brutally and Ianthe lets out an undignified squeak, as he is reminded, forcefully reminded of who owned him, who he was bound to, who had saved him and given him so much.
“Do not push me on this,” Tamlin growls.
Lucien doesn’t.
He lets Tamlin shove him against the walls and nearly choke him as Tamlin lets his rage bleed out slowly.
Feyre had a chance to leave, Lucien thinks, but he did not, and he might as well live with it.
It was all he had after all.
Tamlin locked Lucien in his room for a day for disobedience and insubordination.
Lucien did not argue.
-
“Don’t bother trying,” Lucien softly says to Feyre.
Feyre, who looked like a lost, desperate wolf cub, who looked like a cornered animal, who was so broken Lucien didn’t know how even to help.
“He shielded the entire house around you. Others can go in and out, but you can’t. Not until he lifts the shield.”
Pure panic. Amarantha had locked her in too, Lucien realises with a start.
Feyre hits the shield.
Lucien’s fingernails dig so hard into his palms that the skin broke and fresh blood welled out.
“Just—be patient, Feyre,” Lucien tries, wincing. “Please. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try again.”
Please endure it. Please see reason, don’t fade away, don’t push everyone away.
It was his duty to serve, to protect. The bond was not flaring up, why was it not flaring up?
Lucien touches it. It was in shambles, Lucien realises with a sort of dawning horror.
Magic, unknown and brutal, had punched holes in it until it fell apart, like cutting off threads from a spider web.
Lucien freezes as a dark, looming power breaches the wards.
The Morrigan.
He whips his head back. Feyre, oh gods, where was she-
Lucien was about to step forward when he sees Morrigan.
And smells it.
A mating bond. Between her and-
Oh.
Lucien assesses the situation.
He served. He protected.
Lucien steps aside and bows slightly, letting her in even though she could probably tear him apart without even lifting a finger, like how Tamlin could in a fit of rage.
The Morrigan hones her gaze on him.
Blinks, before tilting her head and nodding.
Letting the prey go.
Lucien watches, watches as Alis pleads her, watches as Morrigan picks out Feyre, shivering, sobbing Feyre, from the whirl of darkness and invisible threads of the universe. Watches as Morrigan reassures Feyre.
“You’re free,” she repeats, over and over again, as she lets Feyre bury her nose into her neck and inhale her scent.
“You’re free,” she smiles gently even as her eyes promise retribution and rage as she steps out of the room and out to the gates, knocking out sentries.
Morrigan pauses at the window Lucien stood by.
“You are stronger than you think,” Morrigan says, and Lucien is unsure if she’s saying it for Feyre or for him.
Lucien blankly watches Morrigan look at him with sympathy and kindness that hurt him, that was tearing him apart, that was re-making him and destroying every essence of him-
Lucien blinks and she is gone.
Lucien sighs, steels himself and winnows to Tamlin, plastering a smile on his face as he laughs and his cycle of protecting and nearly dying renews.