stars in your eyes

Lucien gets a new eye. Golden, like the honey he pours down politicians’ throats. Gold, for the wealth of knowledge he had. Gold, for a crown, for a king.

Gold for victory. Gold for success. Gold for light. Gold, for him.

Lucien doesn’t know what to say to Tamlin for a week after that.

Tamlin doesn’t comment when he finds Lucien’s gift of ever-lasting incense of his favourite scent of lilac.

-

Andras was sent out as a tribute.

He does not come back.

The nobility rejoice in hushed whispers as the servants and sentries mourn.

Lucien leaves to hunt for the rest of the day.

He has no place here where he would belong

-

Lucien saw the young girl.

A girl. A girl, barely on the cusp of adulthood, whose eyes showed such burdens, whose body showed sorrows unspoken of.

She was but a child. And she was fated to save them all.

Perhaps it was his pity,  sympathy for those who needed his help. Perhaps it was the fire he could sense in her when she challenged him and everyone else. Perhaps it was a sense of kinship with two broken souls who had seen too much at such ages.

Lucien teases her and dances with her to keep her alive. Feyre doesn’t know it, trades insults with him and talks to him like he was normal, like he belonged. Like they had found each other in the shadows.

Lucien only backs down when he sees how happy Feyre is with Tamlin, when Tamlin was seconds away from ripping his throat out with jealousy.

Lucien doesn’t bother telling Tamlin that he didn’t swing that way.

Lucien submits, Lucien serves, Lucien helps Feyre to doom Amarantha while trying to prevent her from doing anything too life-threatening.

It’s such a pity that Tamlin forces him to stay back. Lucien watches Feyre as she stumbles her way through a new environment just like he did, found love like he didn’t.

-

When Feyre is taken, when Feyre appeared in the middle of the godsdamned chamber, Lucien wanted to scream at her. Or maybe cry with her. Or maybe both.

Don’t, Lucien wanted to scream.

And suddenly he felt like Jesminda’s head was on the floor again. He was back to that naive child-like mentality. He was feeling again, he could breathe.

Lucien bit his lip and waited in the dark. He was always the best at that, hiding in the shadows before striking.

-

Lucien struck.

He nearly gagged as he saw Feyre’s wound.

He had a few minutes to heal her with what little magic he managed to set aside before the nullifying hum of Amarantha’s safe guards set in.

“Feyre?”
“Lucien?” Feyre asks out, and gods, he had never heard someone sounding so alone and sad before.

(Its a lie. “My Queen knows what is best for her”)

“By the Cauldron, are you all right?” Lucien breathes out as he sees Feyre, struggling to stand, Feyre, struggling to survive.

“My face-“

And suddenly he was angry.

“Have you lost your mind? What are you doing here?”

“I went back to the manor … Alis told me … told me about the curse, and I couldn’t let Amarantha—”

Fuck you Alis, honestly.

The poor girl had a one in a million chance of living, and now the fraction had decreased exponentially.

Love, Lucien knew, was a poison.

Feyre was dying on the inside, and Lucien could do nothing but watch her as she fell prey to a curse which would not have concerned her had she not been so stupidly noble, so brave and loving.

“You shouldn’t have come, Feyre,” he said sharply. “You weren’t meant to be here. Don’t you understand what he sacrificed in getting you out? How could you be so foolish?”

“Well, I’m here now!” Lucien nearly winces as Feyre yells.

“I’m here, and there’s nothing that can be done about it, so don’t bother telling me about my weak human flesh and my stupidity! I know all that, and I …” I wanted to cover my face in my hands, but it hurt too much. “I just … I had to tell him that I love him. To see if it wasn’t too late.”

Lucien pities Feyre even more. She had been shown the smallest amount of care and concern by a High Lord, and she’s already attached. Didn’t she know fairy tales never ended well in real life?

But Lucien just sits down.

“So you know everything, then.”

Feyre nods, looking slightly less energised.

Lucien realises the colossal pain she must be in. Fae and humans were different, after all. Sometimes Lucien forgot that.

“Well, at least we don’t have to lie to you anymore. Let’s clean you up a bit.” Lucien says instead.

Lucien heals Feyre, warns her and disappears before anyone notices anything was amiss.

Lucien knew not to wish her luck to bring her hopes up. Not dying would be her best shot.

-

Of course Lucien’s Cauldron damned luck would strike again.

Lucien notes the distant, fuzzy panic as he is dragged forth.

Gods-damned. Cauldron hated.

Lucien struggles as he is forced to his knees again.

Do you understand, child?

And then Rhysand enters his mind.

His weak, pathetic protections shatter the moment he touches them, brushes them away.

Build up your strength, he said. He didn’t bloody well have the time, did he?

They just went round and round in circles. Feyre doing something heroic, good and pure, with Lucien as collateral.

Again.

Lucien clears his mind, shoves his memories into the deep recesses of his mind as the mental him snarls at Rhysand’s presence.

Rhysand, surprisingly, halts.

“I will hold your mind, fox boy. You will struggle for show. You do not yield unless I tell you to, do you understand, little fox?”

Lucien considers. He knows he is sweating.

Lucien struggles a bit more as he shoots a glance to Tamlin. Tamlin, with his back straight. Tamlin, with his eyes unseeing. Tamlin, who had taken him in, gave him a purpose. Tamlin, whose lover was now just a surviving child in a war she was never meant to be in.

In some ways, Feyre was the ultimate child soldier. The sacrifice. The pawn that was never meant to be placed on the board.

Lucien, as quick as an asp, lashes out at that presence and Rhysand recoils slightly, as if not expecting it.

He sees Rhysand’s physical form smiling faintly.

Good, let that be a challenge, and a warning.

“I thought you would have learned your lesson, Lucien. Though this time your silence will damn you as much as your tongue.” 

Lucien knows, knows that his life was worth nothing without Tamlin.

Flashes. Wood splintering, plates cracking, Feyre and Tamlin staring at each other so intently that Lucien felt sickened to watch.

Fire burning those farm houses down. Debts to be repaid, blood on his hands.

Lucien remembers the sentries sent out. Andras, who had given up his life for the child soldier.

For the artist in a huntress’s body.

For the lover who tamed the beast.

“Her name?” Amarantha commands.

 “I don’t suppose your handsome brothers know, Lucien.”

Brothers. Brothers who would sell him out in a heartbeat. Who would watch as he was tortured and shamed and humiliated and crushed.

“If we did, Lady, we would be the first to tell you.”

Lucien repressed a growl.

Rhysand tightens his claws on Lucien’s mind.

Somehow, somehow that slippery piece of filth had captured him in a net and-

Rhysand squeezed.

Lucien bit down on his tongue.

“Little Lucien, you will yield,” Rhysand purrs.

“Cauldron damn you and your circle,” Lucien hisses back. The teasing talons pause for a second.

Oh, he’d hit a nerve.

Rhysand snarls and tightens, and squeezes until claws are sunk deep into him and-

Lucien lets out a small groan.

By the Cauldron. Feyre was not going to take this well. Tamlin was going to murder him if Rhysand didn’t already rip him apart and tear him into pieces from the inside-

“Feyre! My name is Feyre!”

Oh Feyre, naive, wonderful Feyre. Feyre who loved fiercely and bountifully.

She should have let him die.

Now he would watch her die.

Love, Lucien distantly thinks as he slumps to the ground, muscles giving out, was such a bitch.