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Tamlin hadn’t meant to notice them. Usually, he was careful not to.
Lucien lay on his stomach beside him on the bed, one arm folded beneath his head, the other resting loosely against the sheets. His red hair spilled across the pillows like wine, his breathing slow, even but he wasn't quite asleep yet. The evening breeze enticed the curtains into a dance as it drifted through the open windows, the rich smell of the blooms of Spring weaving through the chamber. It had been the line of his shoulder that had caught Tamlin’s sight at first, the way the candlelight traced the shape of him against the darkness, warm and familiar. Safe.
He reached out and trailed his hand along Lucien’s skin without thought, enjoying how close he was beside him. Lucien made a pleased noise and smiled without opening his eyes. The feeling of that Autumn fire under his hands calmed Tamlin, settled his thoughts and he wanted to touch him everywhere, drifting from Lucien’s hair along his jaw, down his neck to his arm. Eventually he let his palm wander to his back, rubbing circles in the way he knew Lucien liked.
Then Tamlin saw the scars, felt them beneath his fingers. They were crossing Lucien’s back in uneven lines, paler now and silvered with time. Tamlin stilled. Some were faint, others deep markings that still echoed with the suffering they had brought. All of them looked wrong. They stood out against Lucien's skin, like they didn’t belong to him, didn’t belong here, to this - this peaceful life the two of them had carved out for themselves.
Tamlin withdrew his hand like he’d been burned. His blood ran cold, the pain of his sudden awareness slicing through him. For a long moment, he didn’t dare touch him again, his hand now hovering above Lucien’s skin, tense. He knew these scars. He remembered. Oh, he remembered. Couldn’t forget the weight of the whip in his hand, the strain in his arm as he had swung and swung it again even when his muscles had started to cramp, the futile attempt to stop his voice from breaking as he had to count 20 lashes out loud.
His throat tightened as the old memories rose up, choking him, drowning him. His fault. This was his fault. Slowly, very carefully he lowered his hand to Lucien’s back again. He couldn’t stop it from shaking, from trembling with the terrible knowledge that this very hand had caused this mutilation.
His fingers brushed the first scar. He felt the warm skin that was so soft everywhere else on him but here it felt firmer, colder. Lucien stilled beneath his hand, sensing the darkness of his thoughts but didn’t move away. Tamlin’s breath faltered, shallow and uneven as he followed the line of that scar ever so gently, as if he could erase the evidence of his own cruelty if he only touched softly enough, could rewrite something that had been carved too deeply.
“I-“ Bone-deep regret strangled him, tore the word from his throat and broke it apart into nothingness. He flattened his palm against Lucien’s back, covering the scar. Felt the heat that was so familiar to him, the heartbeat echoing through him. Forced himself to take a breath and try again.
“I’m sorry.” Two small words. Not enough, not nearly enough to outweigh the pain Tamlin had brought him.
His thoughts dragged him down into the depths. He’d begged Amarantha to spare Lucien’s life. Had lowered himself onto his knees in front of her, bent his head to the floor and pleaded for mercy. His dignity a laughable price to pay if it kept Lucien safe. In the end, in a cruel mockery of mercy, Amarantha had not killed him. Had forced Tamlin to inflict punishment himself, instead. He’d tried to refuse, had spit at her, had tried bargaining first then begged again. He would have given anything to trade places with him, to take the punishment in Lucien's stead. It hadn’t mattered.
In his darkest nightmares he still heard the sound the whip had made as it hit Lucien, as it split his flesh. He could still smell his blood. Lucien had tried to be brave, even then trying to comfort Tamlin, to not show his agony. He hadn’t lasted long. Amarantha had made sure he hit hard. Lucien’s screams had been ringing in Tamlin’s ears long after it was over. It had nearly ended him.
Tamlin’s fingers moved to the next scar. This one was so thin he could barely feel it, then the next one slicing through it and the next, so thick his finger bumped against it. He was mapping them with a quiet reverence that felt dangerously close to grief. Grief for versions of themselves they could never be again, grief for what he had taken from Lucien.
Tamlin’s gaze lifted without thinking, drawn to the beloved lines of Lucien’s face against the pillow. His attention snagged on the scars around his mechanical eye, that very eye Lucien had lost because of his loyalty to him. Another price Lucien had had to pay because of him. Another mark he carried. Another one of Tamlin’s failures, carved permanently into his skin. All because he’d been stupid enough to send Lucien to Amarantha alone and unprotected, despite knowing how dangerous she was. This was all his fault. Lucien’s blood was on his hands.
He still remembered finding Lucien at the border of his court, after, dumped there like trash. He’d barely dared touch him, too afraid to hurt him further. The only thing he’d managed to do was to vomit, pathetic in his weakness. The horror of seeing Lucien’s mutilated face had been too much to bear.
Lucien was the strong one. He had suffered and endured too much. What had Tamlin ever done for him except cause him pain? It tore him apart, unravelled him down to his very core.
“I should have protected you,“ he bit out. Guilt, his old friend and lifelong companion, filled him like poison.
Lucien shifted beneath his hand, not moving away but rather towards him. Tamlin’s own heartbeat thundered in his ears, hope and longing burning a hole into his chest. Even after it all, Lucien didn’t flinch from his touch. Tamlin never understood why he still trusted him, how he could even stand to look at him. Some days Tamlin could barely look at himself.
“She did it because of me,” he continued, voice lower now, rougher, the truth pressing in from all sides. “She knew what you mean to me.” Amarantha had known precisely how to break him, that the way to hurt him was to hurt Lucien. He closed his eyes, despair rising in his throat, chest aching with all the unsaid things as he fought to keep from screaming. Cauldron, he wanted to scream, to rage, to sob. He wanted to drag Amarantha from her grave just so he could kill her again, rip her apart until there was nothing left and grind her black soul into the dirt.
His anger was an impotent, awful thing. Amarantha was dead, rotting in hell where she belonged. But Lucien’s scars were still there, sitting between them in accusation of Tamlin’s failings as if her curse had never ended.
“I couldn’t stop it,” he spat, the words fraying at the edges, “I couldn’t stop any of it.”
He heard Amarantha’s voice in his head as she had forced the whip into his hand. “You want me to spare the life of your precious Lucien? This is my price,” she had purred, her long nails trailing down his face, pausing at his throat. The same nails that had clawed out Lucien’s eye. “So you better make this good.”
Now, Tamlin lowered his head like a sinner begging for absolution, and brushed his lips against Lucien’s back, against one of the scars. His touch was soft, so soft, as if he was afraid he would hurt him more. The kiss was almost hesitant, like he didn’t think that he deserved even this.
“I’m sorry, Lucien,” he whispered again in anguish, words pressing against Lucien’s skin. “I’m so sorry.”
Amarantha had kept Lucien from healing, had forbidden any magic to relieve his pain. Tamlin remembered being forbidden from even seeing him, desperation and helplessness consuming him whole. He had prayed to the Mother then for the first time since the curse, had screamed until his throat was raw for Her to help them.
Lucien exhaled slowly, Tamlin felt the rise and fall of his chest beneath his lips. “You did it to save my life. You didn’t have a choice, Tam,” he said, voice thick with emotion but unwavering, as if he had made his peace with this a long time ago. Tamlin shook his head against him, his forehead rubbing against Lucien’s skin, both his hands now holding onto him, refusing to let go, terrified of what might happen if he wasn’t holding him.
“I did,” his voice came out harsh, “I should have found a way. I’m a fucking High Lord. I should have-“ He broke off again. There was no version of that line of thought that would not undo him completely. Lucien had needed him and he hadn’t been there. Lucien had needed him to protect him and he had failed him. Shame washed over him, peeling away his skin and scalding him with self-hatred.
The sheets rustled as Lucien leaned on his forearms so he could face him properly. Like the coward he was, Tamlin didn’t dare look at him, afraid of what he would see on his face. He was dreading the day when Lucien would wake up and realise this had all been Tamlin’s fault. That Tamlin had done nothing but hurt him. Then, he’d only look at him with resentment and hatred. And Tamlin would deserve it even as his heart would shatter for good.
He felt fingers on his face, caressing his cheek, smoothing his hair. Gently coaxing him to lift his chin and to meet Lucien’s gaze. Tamlin traced the scars on his beautiful face with his eyes, hungrily drinking him in, knowing it would never be enough.
But instead of the blame and accusations he expected, there was only certainty on Lucien’s face, only softness. The tenderness of the moment split Tamlin open, small sparks of hope flaring inside him even as he told himself he wasn’t deserving of it.
“You were trying to survive,” Lucien said simply, “And we both did.” The affection on his face made Tamlin almost believe it. That he wasn’t beyond redemption.
“Listen to me, Tam,” Lucien ran his fingers through Tamlin’s hair, cupping his face in his hand. “It wasn’t your fault,” he repeated, voice firm, fixing Tamlin with his gaze.
Something loosened its grip on his chest then, the guilt receding from where it had been crushing him. It lost its bite, couldn’t dig its claws into him as strongly anymore. Not gone, never gone. But lighter, bearable with Lucien beside him. He shuddered, lungs finally, finally drawing a proper breath again. He felt it glide through his body like salvation, as if the sun was shining on him again.
Slowly, Tamlin lowered his head back down. Pressed another kiss to Lucien’s back in quiet devotion. Then another, and another. His lips followed the path of each scar, his touch conveying what words could not.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, gentler now, no longer breaking apart. Whispered it again and again over every scar, every hurt he had inflicted. Lucien’s hand slid across the sheets, reaching back until his fingers found Tamlin’s wrist on his back, grip warm and steady.
“It’s alright,” Lucien murmured, head resting on the pillow again. “All is forgiven.”
With the flickering candlelight framing Lucien as he lay in their bed, trusting him and smiling in spite of everything, Tamlin’s heart soared like a bird taking flight. He shifted upwards and wrapped his arms around Lucien, almost yanking him across the bed. He pulled him against him, closer and then closer still until he could feel his breath on his neck and his heartbeat against his chest. Felt a small laugh rumble out of Lucien, his lips curving against the erratic pulse at Tamlin's throat.
Tamlin let his hand remain where it was, resting on Lucien’s back over scars that would never heal, over the memory of something he had caused and couldn’t undo.
But Lucien was here in his arms, warm beneath his touch, alive and unafraid. Forgiveness rested easy between them. For now, and for as long as Lucien would have him, he would let himself believe in it.