Because I needed to write something that excused/explained Lucien's behaviour in ACOMAF. This is Based between the books and fic examines what was happening in Lucien's head during those months, and why he wasn't able to save Feyre. Some lovely Lucien-whumping. Mentions of sexual abuse and torture.

Disclaimer: A Court of Thorns and Roses & A Court of Mist and Fury is copyrighted to Sarah J. Maas. I am simply using these characters for story-telling purposes.

I could feel Feyre's eyes on me again over breakfast. I stared at my plate, pretending to be absorbed with the fruit I was cutting. These days, I wasn't sure whether it was harder to look at Feyre, or avoid her. The wells of misery flowed either way.

She didn't look away, staring and waiting for me to raise my head. I didn't, even though the apple slices I was cutting were now so ludicrously small I might as well be dicing it.

"Any smaller Lucien," she said, and I repressed a shudder, "and your breakfast is going to disappear."

It seemed she wasn't going to let me avoid her today. I looked up at her then, tried for a smile. Tried to make it look like a joke. "Some of us like to eat with elegance, Feyre," I said. "Rather than just fitting whatever we can into our mouths."

Hollowed out eyes, smudged with purple from sleeplessness, the smell of vomit hidden beneath clean clothes and perfume, cheeks that had no colour underneath Ianthe's carefully applied rouge. But she smiled, smiled in that way that said my joke – however cruel, however pitiful – had just for a moment reminded her of a better time.

"Bastard," she said, and I widened my own smile.

I preferred it when she called me bastard, than friend. Bastard was my title when she'd been happy, when she'd been human—

Amarantha flung her body to the ground. Bones crunched, her body caving in on itself, blood hot and heavy in the air. Tamlin begged, as Feyre lost the strength to scream. And then the surge of power came over us.

"Love," Feyre said.

And crack. The sound of her neck snapping reverberated through my body. Rhysand began to scream – Why, why was he screaming? Why was he in pain? – and Tamlin roared, pain and fury and pure bloody murder.

And I saw Feyre, limp on the floor. Feyre dead. Tamlin sobbing. Just like…

Just like…

I snapped myself out of my memories with a sharp jolt. The sudden movement caused Feyre to jump – she was always jumpy these days; I saw the way she froze when she caught sight of me down corridors, her eyes on my hair. I wondered what she saw in those few seconds.

No, no I didn't. I knew who she saw.

"What's wrong?" she asked, and I put a hand to my eye; the easiest excuse.

"Stupid thing is getting stuck again," I said, and then nodded down to her hand. She'd crushed another fork. "How many is that now?"

"Dammit," Feyre cursed. Tamlin – oblivious, strong, as unwilling to see as me – looked up from where he'd been eating. He smiled sweetly at her.

"Someday Feyre, you're going to need to explain why you have such a terrible vendetta against my cutlery."

Feyre shot him a look, and I saw the love in her eyes, so intense, so deep and forgiving. I felt sick looking at it, sick looking at her.

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

Don't apologise, I wanted to beg. Tell him he's a bastard too. Tell him to teach you how to manage your strength and reflexes. Tell him to notice how much you're wasting away.

The fork in her hand was bent into nothing, crushed by her strong fingers. Fae fingers. High Fae. Not dead – but alive. Alive and well.

Alive and…

I stood, abandoning my food. "I'm going to go get ready, Tamlin."

Tamlin tore his eyes away from Feyre – blind eyes – and dropped them to my plate. Feyre looked too and frowned.

"You massacred that apple, and you're not even going to eat it?" she asked.

Like you can talk, I wanted to yell at her. You should be powerful, you should be strong. But you're thinner than a wraith. You're thinner than the starving human girl who came here months ago.

"Honestly," I drawled, leaning on my chair, "the sight of you two being lovey-dovey with each other makes me sick enough to wish I was back in the Autumn Court."

Tamlin rolled his eyes with a huff, and a barely disguised smile. I took that as my invitation to leave, without suspicion.

"Lucien—" Feyre rose, as I made for the door. She'd been eyeing me because she wanted something. I knew what. I knew what she was going to ask. I hurried my step and was gone before she could speak.

I made it to my chambers before I was sick.

Blood on the floor. Someone laughing. Someone screaming. Hands binding me down – my power bound down.

I shook my head, my face rested in my arms, leaning against the bowl of the toilet. The images flashed again in my mind, interweaving until I couldn't tell the difference any more.

Feyre lying dead. Lyanna lying dead. Tamlin screaming. Or me.

I flushed the toilet, sitting back, cursing myself. Perhaps the worst part was that Feyre didn't even look anything like Lyanna. Where Feyre's hair was blazoned gold, Lyanna's had been a soft, shimmering chestnut. And Feyre's eyes, blue steel and ice, were nothing like the warm autumnal hazel that I had fallen so desperately inlove with.

And yet, when I saw Feyre, I was reminded of Tamlin's sobs, of his utter despair, and my own came bubbling up to the surface.

Lyanna screaming my name, begging me to help her, as my father descended down on the woman I loved. No pity in his eyes, no room for mercy. No consideration. Like he was actually one of the Night Court in disguise, parading in Autumn colours. Like he was a nightmare incarnate.

Feyre had come back. But Lyanna –

Oh Cauldron, Lyanna…

There weren't enough parts of her left to have brought back. They ripped her apart, piece by piece, until her screams tore her throat, and she choked on her blood.

And I watched, and I watched, and I watched as my beloved was ripped limb from limb, sliced and cut, and torn apart. Like Amarantha's victims. My father and brothers really had fitted neatly into her Court.

I should have killed him, I thought viciously. I wanted to kill him. Kill them all.

But whilst my sobs and begging hadn't been enough to give my father pause, my mother's tears, her pleading eyes had driven me away, driven me straight to the Spring Court, with three bastard brothers on my back.

I would have been content to have died trying to slice my father's throat. And I would have died – I knew that. I was nothing to him, just a speck, the youngest son of a cruel High Lord who would rip a screaming girl apart just because I loved her.

But my Mother had always loved me more than any of the others – this, I had always known – and I knew she couldn't watch me die by his hand. Knew it would kill her too. So I'd left, not to save myself, but to spare her heart-break.

Yes. I'd left.

Tamlin had killed Amarantha. Tamlin had gotten Feyre back.

I would have sold my soul for that. For my Father impaled, and Lyanna in my arms again; safe and warm. I would have gone Under the Mountain for it. I would have lived Under the Mountain for it.

Someone knocked on my door. My whole body stilled. I could smell Feyre's scent – Cauldron, Tamlin's scent was all over her now as well. They'd probably done it on the table, after I'd left.

Did she try to talk to him? Did she try to ask him to take her out? Did he fuck her in response, fuck her like nothing had changed, fuck her until she stopped talking?

Feyre knocked a little louder. I splashed water on my face, and went to answer the door.

Bruised lips from kissing, skirt slightly twisted, tiny curls loose from her bound hair. I could see the mark of him on her, and the love in her eyes, still shining, still so full, and heavy, and guilty.

It gave me a headache.

"Feyre?" I asked, leaning against the door frame. "Did you enjoy…" I trained my eye at the collar of her dress, which had slipped over one shoulder. "Breakfast?"

Feyre noticed my gaze and corrected herself, covering the bites and signs of love making that peppered her skin. They'd heal in a few minutes, all evidence evaporated. Except for the smell; the smell of sex.

"You disappeared so suddenly."

"I sensed I wasn't wanted."

"Lucien…" Feyre dropped her gaze. "I'm sorry."

I was surprised. "What for?"

"It's...I just wonder if it doesn't hurt. To see us like this, when you…"

When I lost the woman I loved, like Tamlin. When I watched her die like Tamlin. But then Tamlin got his back, got his revenge, and I had to watch as he thanked my father for it – the murderer of the woman I loved – thanked him for bringing Feyre back.

"Good grief Feyre, if that sort of thing bothered me, I would have left the house months ago," I lied.

I can't blame you. You saved us. You saved us all; you beautiful, wonderful, drowning girl. I can't blame you for not dying, when she did. I can't blame you for the fact seeing your face is like a dagger to the heart.

She smiled at me, her heavy eyes so sleepless, so full of love for Tamlin, so desperately unhappy, that my headache got worse. We stared at each other, and she opened her mouth as if to say something.

For a moment, I felt like we were on the cusp of confessing. For a moment I thought she was about to tell me how much she now hated the colour red, that she saw blood in the paints she had forgotten, and Amarantha in my hair. For a moment I thought I was going to drag her into the room, and tell her that some nights, I woke still feeling Amarantha craving open my face, and that I hated being indoors, because I always felt like the roof was slowly sinking down toward me.

But neither of us spoke. We just stared at each other.

Save me, I felt her begging me. Save me, please.

I can't, I thought back. I don't know how. I'm not strong enough. He won't listen to me. You need to speak. You need to tell him. You're the strong one, Feyre.

She'd asked me time and time again to take her out, begged me to tell Tamlin to give her some liberty, but it was useless. Even as I watched it kill her, even as I appealed to Tamlin, the words were always thick in my throat.

Because I could still hear Tamlin's sobs, tearing through me as he held her, Amarantha's blood on his clothes.

If I had my Lyanna back, what would I do keep her safe? I could feel Tamlin's emotions, his rage and his fear and his possessiveness; I knew them like they were my own, and it was hard to fight against something I understood so desperately.

But you're not Tamlin, I would always remind myself, and Feyre – Cauldren, Feyre, you're so thin, you're so small – Feyre needed someone to help her.

And so I would speak on her behalf. I would beg Tamlin, snap over Ianthe – traitorous bitch, beautiful temptress, false advisor – implore my High Lord to give Feyre the freedom she needed to heal. Implore my High Lord to realise that the needs of the human girl who had fallen in-love with him, were not the needs of the High Fae who had emerged victorious from Under the Mountain.

And on those occasions, when I started to make too much sense, when I pushed too hard, Tamlin would turn that rage on me – that rage he'd used to rip through Amarantha – and I would remember the feel of the whip on my back, the terrible sheering sensation of skin splitting, and my mouth would go dry.

I was not strong. I was not fast. I was not powerful. I was a coward, who froze up the moment the memories returned. I was afraid. And I couldn't save Feyre.

I hadn't even been able to save myself.

Ianthe was circling the room as the guests poured in, chattering among each other, glasses clinking. I stayed closed to Tamlin's side, trying to make sure there was always at least a few people between me and that zealot. She was a guest in his house, in his Court, so I couldn't object to her, but I'd made it clear that I would not abide her.

Wouldn't abide the way her eyes stroked over me, the way she would brush her hand up her thighs when I looked her way, the way she tried to make herself succulent, desirable, tried to awaken a thirst in me I would never willing extend to her. Even when I was obliged.

"She's doing wonders for Feyre," Tamlin had said, when I hissed in his ear that Ianthe was getting too comfortable with her position in this house. Getting too familiar with the people in it. "Forgive her, Lucien. Forgive her for running away when Amarantha came. Any sensible person would have done it."

I didn't have the courage to say that Ianthe fleeing was only one of a dozen reasons I loathed her.

"I don't trust her," I'd told Tamlin and he, tired of the conversation, tired from a whole night of patrolling in the woods, had snarled at me. Snarled and I'd backed off like a frightened child, my heart racing, my skin going clammy as the aggressive sound momentarily transported me back, back to the grunts of excetsion he'd made as he raised the whip over my back. Hard as he could, because being gentle would have given Amarantha ideas.

Would have tempted her to do other things.

In an odd moment of clarity, Tamlin's green eyes had sort of cleared, and he'd looked at me like he saw where I'd gone for that second, where my fears had taken me. Feyre had once described how her father, when they'd been cast into poverty, had given up and how his eyes had sort of clouded over from the world. I sometimes wondered if that wasn't what had happened to Tamlin.

I sometimes wondered if, despite it all, any of us had ever actually gotten out from Under the Mountain.

Across the room, Feyre had been abandoned by the drinks table. She was wearing a long gown with a puffed skirt, and frilly sleeves. Ianthe had chosen it well – it disguised how thin she was, even whilst making her look ridiculous.

I wondered what the human girl I'd known, in her tatty hunting clothes, would have thought of this High Fae doll if they ever met each other.

I watched as Feyre drained a glass of wine, putting down on the table, and tugging at her own fingers, her eyes blank as she gazed over the crowd. She didn't recognise anyone. She didn't know anyone.

I left Tamlin's side, cutting through the crowd toward her. Her eyes caught mine, and she froze for a second – as she always did when she spotted me from a distance. Then her eyes roamed over my face and I saw a vague spark of relief fill her gaze. I turned my stride into a saunter, smirking slightly at her as I came to her side. I gave her an exaggerated look up and down, whistling.

"Well Feyre; it's got to be said – a good scrubbing from Alis, and you don't look half bad."

Her mouth clenched slightly, like she was pretending to scowl. Faerie bastard, her eyes screamed in a look that was, for an instant, so like the human from before my heart skipped a beat. And then she gave me a lazy smile, her eyes glinting wickedly. "Shame the same can't be said for your sense of humour," she drawled. "Alis could scrub that for hours, and it'd still be duller than dirt."

I roared with laughter.

Yes, give me that sharp tongue. Show me some of you is still in there Feyre, buried under the rubble of the Mountain.

Feyre looked down at her dress. "Ianthe said it brought out the colour of my eyes," she said, swishing the skirt. Her mouth dipped with distaste; poofy skirts are much harder to run away in.

"Honestly," I said, leaning into her, "it makes you look a bit like tent."

Her gaze shot up to mine, different emotions flashing across her face. Humour, irritation, fear – why was she afraid? Her eyes darted over to Ianthe, who was flirting her way across the room, looking for the highest bidder.

"Ianthe gave it to me."

"She has poor taste," I said, with a growl.

"Do I look awful?"

"No." I turned back to her quickly, hearing the slight slump in her voice. All this, I knew, she was doing for Tamlin. The dresses, the jewellery, the parties… "You just…don't look like…"

"Me."

I nodded gravely. Feyre swallowed, running her hands over her skirt. She was wearing silky white gloves, to hide that horrendous tattoo Rhysand had given her.

What did he do to her? I thought, my stomach summersaulting. What did he do to her when she was alone in that cell, and I was laid out, my back torn open, barely able to breath? What did he force her to endure, when I wasn't there to help?

Rhysand had not come to claim her yet. Maybe he knew better now that Tamlin had his full power back…But then again, Rhysand had been strange around Feyre.

Tamlin's sobs. Rhysand's screams. Feyre's neck snapping, the sound reverberating through my body.
Lyanna's bones snapping. Lyanna's sobs. My screams. My screams intermingled with hers.

"Why do you hate her so much?" Feyre jolted me from my thoughts, and for a moment I was confused.

Then I noticed she was watching Ianthe, and my jaw clenched. "I don't," I said stiffly. "She's a valuable asset to the Court."

Liar. Traitor. Zealot. User. Danger – I pushed those thoughts out of my mind, straying a glance to Tamlin. For Tamlin I would endure Ianthe. Even when I found her in my bed. Even when she slipped between my sheets, and told me Tamlin had said it was fine.

Tamlin had said she could.

Ianthe spotted Feyre and I together, and began to make her way across, flashing me a nauseating smile. I slipped away without a word, and was gone from the room before she reached Feyre.