Huntress, free, waiting for me
Lucien dragged himself to see Feyre’s first trial.
Stupid, brave, wonderful Feyre, who was his sister more than his brothers were to him.
He would not fail. He would not fail Feyre, would not fail Tamlin, would not fail his vow to protect the lesser fae who were suffering and the High Fae would let them suffer for all they cared.
So when Feyre begun, Lucien was on the edge of his seat.
“So, who do you think will win?” A faerie to his right breathlessly exclaims.
Lucien gives the faerie his best Beron inspired sneer before turning back to Feyre.
The Wyrm, where was it where was it-
There. And Feyre wouldn’t notice on time, wouldn’t see it-
“To your left!” Lucien screams, screams before he knows what he’s doing, and Feyre runs.
When the eyes of Amarantha, those damning, blood red eyes, so different yet so similar to his russet one, he knows he is going to pay for this.
Once Feyre is taken away, once Rhysand is sent back to her chambers for whatever tortures Amarantha will concoct for Rhysand for betting against her, Lucien is dragged to the dungeon.
They paint the walls in his blood and his screams are the only thing heard for the rest of the week.
-
Lucien is healed and they bring him to Tamlin. Tamlin, who he had sworn his loyalty to. Tamlin, who had bothered, who had begged Amarantha for him to be spared.
Amarantha had Tamlin deliver 20 lashes.
Lucien had not cried out for any. 20 had become 30, then 40, until his back was a mangled mess and it was all he could do to not keel over and scream.
But Lucien had held Amarantha’s damning gaze and let Tamlin whip his back into bloody shreds.
Amarantha had looked at him with cruelty shining, rage in her eyes, but a small grain of respect for his loyalty.
Lucien let the Attor rub salt into his wounds before dragging him out and dumping him into another cell again.
The next time he woke up, he was slowly healing and was in an actual room with a small mattress instead of a dungeon cell.
Lucien did not complain.
-
When Lucien beheld Feyre, dressed in such a scandalous dress, marked and claimed by Rhysand-
He glanced at Tamlin, who looked utterly stoned and emotionless.
Wrong. It felt wrong, to see Rhysand touching her and feeling her out. It felt wrong to smell Rhysand so near her, yet it felt so right.
Feyre, Lucien decides, was going to be the death of him.
-
“Shit,” Lucien huffs as he opens the door to check on Feyre,” It’s freezing in here.”
The usual banter, with a hint of panic and desperation.
Lucien wanted to cuff Feyre for making that stupid bargain, but grudgingly admitted that it increased her chances of survival by a small amount, even if the repercussions were greater.
Feyre made his job very very difficult, but it made his life interesting.
“I should go. The rotation’s about to shift,” he says instead.
“I’m sorry—that she still punished you for helping me during my task. I heard—”
Lucien stiffens.
“I heard what she made Tamlin do to you.”
Lucien shrugs. It was his duty, his honour, his job and life to serve and protect Tamlin and his allies.
“Thank you. For helping me, I mean.”
“It’s why I couldn’t come sooner,” Lucien softly says. His back aches at the thought, but he ignores it.
“She used her—used our powers to keep my back from healing. I haven’t been able to move until today.”
Naive Feyre. Dear Feyre. Innocent, optimistic Feyre.
“He’s playing a dangerous game, though,” Lucien said, slipping out the door. “We all are.”