Work Text:
The pain still clung to Lucien like thorns buried deep beneath skin.
He hadn’t screamed when Amarantha had finished with him. Hadn’t given her that satisfaction. But now, in the quiet, with his back shredded and his pride even more so, the silence echoed louder than any cry.
He’d done the right thing. Feyre had lived. But still, lying on his stomach in the damp, rank-smelling cell, Lucien wondered if it had been worth it.
“I must say,” came a silken voice from the shadows, “you look positively tragic. ”
Lucien groaned, not bothering to look up. “What do you want, Rhysand? Come to gloat?”
“Oh, I never gloat. I comment. With flair.” A pause. “Though I do admit, this whole noble-sacrifice look is doing something for me.”
Lucien half-laughed, half-coughed. “Please tell me you're here to put me out of my misery.”
“Tempting,” Rhys said, suddenly closer, his boots whispering over stone. “But alas, your death would cause more problems than it's worth. Tamlin would sulk for weeks. And I simply can’t have that.”
A cool hand touched his shoulder.
Lucien flinched, hissing. “Don’t touch me.”
“Oh, I forgot. Pride comes before basic healing. Silly me.” But Rhys’s voice wasn’t mocking now. It was... softer. “Lie still.”
Lucien turned his head just enough to see him. Rhys knelt beside him, shadows coiling at his heels, violet eyes studying him too intently.
“You hate me,” Lucien sneers.
“I don’t hate you,” Rhysand said lightly. “I just enjoy watching you squirm.”
“Why are you here?”
Rhys’s fingers brushed down his back—not touching the wounds, but close enough that Lucien could feel the tingling hum of magic gathering. “Because she would have died without you. And despite my overwhelming desire to be the most important person in any given situation, even I can admit when someone else does something worthwhile.”
Lucien stared at the stone floor. “She’s not your concern.”
“No,” Rhys agreed. “But she’s yours. And that... is interesting.”
Lucien scowled. “You’re a bastard.”
“And you're bleeding on my boots.” Rhys paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I suppose we’re even.”
A cool sensation spread over Lucien’s back, like silk soaked in snowmelt. He shivered.
“Better,” Rhys murmured. “Though your fashion sense is still appalling.”
Lucien rolled his eyes. “Can’t all be pretty princes in black.”
Rhys grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
And just before the magic faded, before the shadows curled around him once more, Rhysand added—quietly, sincerely—“Next time you play hero, don’t die afterwards. The court would be unbearable without your whining.”
Lucien blinked at him. “Was that... concern?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Rhys said, already vanishing. “I just think you’re mildly tolerable. Occasionally. Under duress.”
And then he was gone.
But the pain had dulled. Just a little.
And Lucien, for the first time in days, let himself breathe.