Magic abound, love will heal your wounds
Lucien had always been playing games since he was a child.
He would run around the manor, hid in the bushes, duck around corridors avoiding servants as he pretended a phantom wind was chasing him.
When he was older, he played the games of politics. Of cunning smiles, of lies hidden in syrup, of razor-sharp comments disguised as sweet charm.
And now, he was playing again. He was but a pawn, just like Feyre. He had his job, protect Feyre, do not let her die, do not fail Tamlin and his wishes.
He had nothing left except his loyalties and Feyre’s brightness that had dimmed significantly with Amarantha.
It had not stopped him from slipping away to see her.
And so, as Lucien lay chained to the center of the floor on the other side of the chamber, as his remaining russet eye so wide that it was surrounded with white, as the metal one spun as if set wild, as yet again he was to be Amarantha’s toy to torment, he did not protest much.
Spikes. Lucien, son of Beron and Hestia, made with fire in his blood and soul, would die because of spikes and fire.
Some small surviving part, the survivor in him, howls, and he wrenches at his chains.
What was the test, he had to see, had to bring Feyre through this-
Writing. Cauldron damn them all.
He could not, would not die before he knew he had served his purpose.
“Answer it!” Lucien shouts.
Feyre looked so small, so scared.
Do not pray for me, Feyre, pray for yourself and those who will live to see Amarantha reign supreme, Lucien thinks as he desperately claws at his restraints.
“Feyre,” Lucien breathes out as the spikes come closer. He would fail, he would die, he would fail and leave them and be remembered as a traitor and coward and a pathetic child-
“Just pick one!” Lucien hoarsely yells as he pushes all his power into breaking the chains.
(Hide that power, Little Lucien)
His magic flares and struggles.
“Feyre, please!”
Begging already, Lucien? You were always the weakest, the most tainted filth.
Feyre pulls.
The spikes stop inches away.
“Oh gods, Mother guide us, Maiden lead us, Crone defend us, Cauldron save us,” Lucien murmurs as he sinks to the floor.
They nearly died. Again.
His luck was the absolute worst.
-
Lucien doesn’t see the light for the next few hours? Days? Weeks?
-
Lucien is dragged out again to witness the last trial.
To see Feyre be crushed. Amarantha would not allow it.
Feyre looked so determined, so loving. As Lucien watched Feyre gaze into Tamlin’s eyes, so like him and Jesminda, he felt so much sorrow for the girl.
She was just a girl. She shouldn’t even be here playing their immortal game of thrones.
A human girl, willing to risk everything for her fae lover, like Amarantha had said.
And when Feyre had whispered “I love you” to Tamlin, when she had driven that arrow right into him-
Rhysand had been grinning from ear to ear. Lucien wonders if he knew, if he too had dropped hints.
For someone spreading his legs for Amarantha, he sure was invested in Feyre’s survival.
The bargain, the bond, the mercy, the flashes of emotions.
Who was he? What was he doing?
Why save her?
And Amarantha struck.
No.
“Feyre!” Rhysand roars.
Gods, Feyre.
Lucien made to stand up.
Another faerie yanked him down but he growls.
And Rhysand struck.
Lucien could do nothing but watch, watch as Rhysand slams back into the wall. Could do nothing but stare in horror, for figuring it out too late, for connecting the dots too late.
Some part of him screamed for Rhysand to get up. For Feyre to run.
“Stop, please,” Feyre whispers.
He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t feel, what was happening-
Tamlin begs. In all his life, Lucien had never seen Tamlin beg like this. Not even for his life, where Tamlin had merely kneeled and beseeched her.
What was Lucien worth to Feyre in the eyes of Tamlin, who would have been her mate if she were fae?
Lucien gets up slowly.
“Love,” Feyre chokes out.
Lucien, midway down the stairs to where Amarantha stood, poised to kill Feyre, froze.
His magic was swirling, his magic was growing, the fire and destruction in him burning.
“The answer to the riddle is love.”
And Lucien knew, knew that this human girl, child soldier, Cauldron blessed human, had saved them all.
Lucien shakily removes his mask.
He could do nothing but stare as he let the mask drop from his fingers.
She had done it, she had won.
He had succeeded and served his Lord and probably soon to be Lady.
Lucien Vanserra smiles for the first time in centuries as he meets Feyre’s gaze over Amarantha for a second.
-
And then the fight.
Bloody, brutal, glorious, righteous.
“Tam!” Lucien yells over the din and grabs a sword before throwing it to him.
He was Tamlin’s knight, he was Tamlin’s right hand, he would serve and help him-
And it was done.
A small, shaky bond between Feyre and him when Tamlin had made him swear to protect her lurched.
“No,” Lucien breathes and Tamlin, snapped out of a daze, rushes to Feyre.
Oh Feyre.
Lucien feels himself heading for Feyre, bond dragging him to her, begging him to save her.
He stands by her uselessly, watches as Tamlin’s face becomes one of guilt and desperation, as Feyre’s blood stains the stones.
He feels a familiar presence behind him.
His father had come.
Lucien nearly turns to him, almost snarls-
Beron opens his fingers. A glittering spark falls and vanishes as it touches Feyre.
The Rite of Rebirth.
One of the rituals his tutors had made him study, had made him understand and remember.
Beron, his father, was parting with a pro of his essence, to save a mortal, a “lesser”.
The world, Lucien decides as he watches the High Lords one by one offer Feyre their gratitude, has truly gone to the dogs.
“I love you,” Feyre says and slumps against Tamlin.
Lucien feels the bond, tentatively.
And across the other end, was a small, tiny soul, but it flared alive when Lucien tugged.
Lucien numbly leans on his sword and almost cried.