Chapter Text
Lucien didn’t know how long he’d been there, down in the decrepit dungeon below Koschei’s fortress. It had to have been weeks, but without a window, without the sun, Lucien had lost track of time. Of everything. Of himself.
The only light was the flickering of torches out in the hall. Most of the cell was drenched in darkness and never-ending dampness. The cold stone of the floor pressed painfully into his side as he lay there curled up in a ball, tucked away in the corner like some animal. It was the best way he could keep warm. The stone walls helped him to retain at least some of his body heat.
Not wearing a shirt made it even colder. He still had a shirt, the plain white long sleeve undershirt he had been wearing the day he was captured. When he was ambushed. Betrayed. Likely by some sneaky, sniveling rat he mistakenly put his trust in.
The shirt was currently draped over a wooden bucket, damp and still dirty. Sometimes Lucien would use the last few splashes of his daily water ration to try to clean some of the grime off his clothes, and he’d drape it over the bucket to dry. It was torture waiting for the shirt to dry, shivering in the cold. But wearing a shirt that was still wet would be even worse. It also didn’t help that he had no boots, no socks just his disheveled, blood stained pants.
Speaking of torture, Lucien heard the shuffling footsteps of one of the dimwitted guards approaching. For what they lacked in intelligence, they made up for with brute strength. And they had a fondness for asserting dominance and inflicting pain.
His hand unconsciously lifted to touch his left eye, well, the eye socket where his golden-mechanical eye had been pried out from. Lucien still felt residual phantom pain. Stinging and throbbing with the memory. They weren’t gentle when they took his eye, and it was bleeding for days. They didn’t care. They were too busy making him bleed other ways. Whipping, beating, slashing, and stabbing. Trying to make him talk, to give away any of Prythian’s secrets, back when he was first captured.
And Lucien had no way of healing himself. His magic was gone, silenced by daily fae bane. They first poisoned him by injuring him with poisoned weapons. Then when the torture and abuse stopped, when they realized he wouldn’t talk, they laced it in the bland porridge they served him once a day. He wondered why they didn’t kill him. It wasn’t like he mattered. He wondered when they’d return with even worse methods of torture.
The metal latch of the door clanged as the guard opened it. Lucien tried his best to scoot himself into a sitting position. He winced in pain, leaning his back against the stone wall, his head dipping to the side from exhaustion. His long red hair was a scraggly mess, and he did his best to keep it pulled back and bound at his neck. But it still got grimy and gross after a while. Sometimes he’d use part of his water ration to clean himself too. If he had the energy.
Lucien recognized the guard as the one who was always extra cranky. The one who did the dirty work of plucking out his gold eye. Great. It was going to be a long night. Or morning. Lucien didn’t know.
The guard stomped in, crouched down a bit, and tossed the wooden bowl of porridge at Lucien’s feet. Half of it splattered on the floor and across Lucien’s lap. He hated to admit it, but in the past he was so desperate for food, the last time this happened he ate every last drop of porridge off the disgusting floor.
Now though, now he really didn’t care for eating. Sometimes his starvation turned to numbness, and he’d almost forget that he was hungry. Until he’d get that all too familiar pang of pain in his stomach. But he even grew numb to that. He didn’t care anymore. Sometimes he tried to rile up the guards on purpose, piss them off so much that maybe they’d run a sword through him. At least it would be over then.
After a few insults and curses, the guard left Lucien’s cell and then stood at his post right outside the door. Lucien knew that if the guard was having a particularly bad shift, he might come back in and just start beating the shit out of him to let off steam. So Lucien ate his porridge, leaned against the wall in the corner, and waited.
That was all he could do these days. Wait. Wait to be beaten. Tortured. Wait to die of starvation of sickness. Wait to be killed. To go insane. He didn’t care. He didn’t care. He didn’t care.
The first few days of his imprisonment, he was full of rage and revenge. But as time wore one, when no one came to save him. He started to give up.
Because who would save him anyway? Lucien knew he wouldn’t risk it to save someone like himself. So why did he bother having hope in the beginning?
His family wouldn’t come for him. Not in a thousand years would they step foot down in this dungeon, except to maybe spit at his feet and say good riddance. Perhaps his mother, if it had been long ago, before her will was broken by his corrupt father.
One of his oldest friends, Tamlin… he wouldn’t come. He had no army, no support, no resources. And Lucien would never say this to his face, but he thinks Tamlin also lost his courage. His tenacity. His old friend is likely holed up in his deteriorating Spring Court manor, wasting away in different way than Lucien.
His newer friends, Jurian and Vassa, they wouldn’t come either. It’s too dangerous for humans to even get near. It would be a suicide mission for Jurian. And Vassa, she had her own problems with Koschei to deal with. Lucien actually had no idea what might’ve become of her. If Koschei called her back to him, if he cursed her even more, if she’s even still alive. He discerned that he was far too deep underground to be able to hear the firebird’s cries.
Then there was the Night Court. Lucien almost laughed out loud. He would be the least of their priorities, a sad sacrifice they’d have to make for the greater good. Maybe Feyre would fight for him, stand up for him. But as Rhysand’s mate, she’d probably end up siding with him. He’d say it would be too much of a risk and leave it at that. They’d need to play it safe for the good of their court. Their families.
And his mate. His mate. She’d never come. Never.
So that left no one.
No one would come for Lucien. They didn’t need to. He wasn’t worth it. They’d grieve his death and move on with their lives. So be it. Lucien was used to being discarded. He grew numb to that pain too.