Child of Night, dancing in fire
And so here Lucien was, kneeling and trying his best not to shiver against the cold, hard floor. Blood kept on marring his vision. His eye, gods, his eye.
Worst of all, the High Lord of Night was here, and he was at his mercy.
Lucien had the worst bloody luck ever. He cursed the stars he was born under.
Lucien wanted to scream. To struggle against the chains. To snarl and slash at the fucking prick who dared, dared stand there and play Amarantha’s bedmate when so many were suffering, when he was suffering, when the very people he had sworn to protect were dying. When children were being sold to Hybern, when women were being defiled and used, when men were being sent as collateral damage.
“I know that look, save it fire boy,” the prick, Rhysand, smirks.
“Make me, Child of Night,” he hissed back, smarting at the word boy. He was no child, how dare he-
But he was, compared to Rhysand. He had 200 or so years on him. He was infinitely more cruel, more callous, more wise than he could ever hope to be. He had fought in a war only Beron had fought in, when Eris was but 100 and Kieran still 50.
He had fought in the war his mother had fought in, when she still had her warrior’s spirit. Hestia Vanserra neé Lysander, fated for Beron Vanserra.
How powerful they were, the oldest servants whispered. How Beron had smothered her flame and she had given everything to her sons.
Lucien snorted, thinking back on that. Yeah, and she definitely gave him her angst and misfortune.
“I could send you back to Amarantha, tell her that you refuse to break, that your will will not bend, let her slowly, intimately, tear you apart, show the world that you may be fire hiding in rose bushes, but she can put out your flame easily,” Rhysand muses, a flash of something like rage or some memory of his invoking emotion in those dark, shadowy eyes.
“For you to watch me be toyed with and forced into submission,” Lucien dully stated as he wipes away all the blood flowing down his entire face and body as he opens a few wounds that had half healed.
“More like watch Beron pretend that his son isn’t dying, that this isn’t a warning to Autumn that fire is no match in such darkness and despair,” Rhysand calmly shoots back as he watches in slight amusement.
“And I suppose you take lessons from her? Is it before or during your lovely make-out sessions? Does she make you beg, Little Lord, when you spread your legs for her to-“
A backhand so quick, so much quicker than Tamlin or Beron could ever achieve, made Lucien gasp for air, even as he laughed and settled himself off his knees to sit on the ground.
“You’re fast, much quicker than usual High Lords even, and Tamlin is a force of nature,” Lucien notes.
“Does Tamlin dear slap you often? With your insolence, I can’t see how. Perhaps Beron was wrong, after all. He let you kindle in the background, let your fire grow. And he will look back and regret the day he decided to leave you behind in the shadows,” Rhysand muses, back to his ice-cold prince look.
“My father,” Lucien drawls, “Sees nothing beyond what political power he could gain from people. He makes a successful High Lord, but never a great one. His people hate him but respect him. And that is the only thing that matters to him.”
“Look at you, Little Fox, lost from his den. You were always only a fox in the Court of thorns and roses, hiding from your den members,” Rhysand croons, and pets his head softly, so gently that Lucien had saw red and lunged at him with his bare hands.
And to his surprise, managed to clip him on the neck. A scratch, small, but drawing blood nonetheless.
Rhysand blinks.
“Oh you’ll pay for that, my little fox,” he breathes out.
Lucien snarls and throws his entire will into breaking the chains, into willing his magic, his fire into existence, he was the fire, it was part of him, how dare they take it away.
The symbols flare and Rhysand stops seething to look at him curiously. Lucien scowls again and he pours his soul into fighting the invisible bonds that tie down his magic, that suppress his nature, that are killing him slowly, taking off years of his life, he and his magic were one, he would not let this scare him, would not let this break him.
The symbols flare again.
“I suggest,” Rhysand quietly says, looking contemplative,” You stop struggling now.”
And with a final snarl, Lucien wills his fire into existence and sends a small lick of flame to singe the hem of his trousers.
Rhysand looks down at the part, and looks up at Lucien. Lucien is a panting, shivering mess, but there’s a spark of victory as he takes in the surprise in his violet eyes (pretentious arse, who has violet eyes?).
“Don’t let Amarantha see that. I’ll see what I can do to send you back to Spring. Work on your mind shields, your runes are fascinating but they don’t do anything against daemati like me and Hybern.”
Rhysand quietly leaves, and Lucien slumps to the ground