Summary: She was his every breath, his every step. For her, he could have torn the world apart with his bare hands. And there was only her and Lucien. Lucien and her. And he watched her blood spread across the gleaming floors of the Autumn Court.

ACOTAR belongs to the lovely Sarah J. Maas.

If Lucien could name one problem about himself, it was that he simply cared too little.

It wasn't even that he didn't care; it was just that the small amount of caring he ever put into anything was so few and far between that it was a miracle neither his father nor his brothers deigned to point it out. From his handsome face to his sharp tongue to even his high status, the young prince just...

...didn't bother.

And so it was that he lounged across the warm grass in his Mother's garden, the shade of a large apple tree graciously protecting him from the sun. He sprawled beneath it, gazing at the mosaic of warmly-painted leaves above him. They fluttered carelessly, and as Lucien let his eyes drift shut, he felt content. At peace.

Then something landed hard on his gut.

He let out an undignified "oompf" and whipped his head up to stare into the face of his brother.

Thatcher, the eldest, and perhaps the one Lucien feared most, smiled sardonically down at him, the hostility of his expression carefully veiled with a calculated elegance — it sent a cold chill spiderwalking down Lucien's back. his sharp, brutal features stretched into a wider grin, not missing Lucien's chattering teeth.

"It's your turn to go out and play with the riff-raff today, Lucien," he said, his voice thick with a lilt like dripping blood. "Give them the apples, if you can handle the stench, and remember to give it only to the ones who beg the most; these are the apples from Mother's garden, after all, and I'd hate to see them wasted."

"Go easy on him, now, Thatcher. You know that your baby brother identifies with the rabble."

Both Lucien and Thatcher turned to face the third brother, Xavier as he leaned against an apple tree; Thatcher's thin lips contorted into a wry smirk, while Lucien scoffed as Xavier pushed his shoulder off from the tree and knelt down to the heavy basket resting on Lucien's stomach. He plucked an apple from it, an appreciative moan escaping his lips.

"You know, I really don't understand why Mother insists on wasting her apples like this. They'd be perfect for our table."

"They are on our table," Lucien remarked dryly. Xavier shot him a glare and continued, juice dribbling down his chin as he took another bite from the apple he'd taken.

"Less for them means more for us. The apples which Mother grows are too rich to be out and about on the streets like that."

Lucien turned his cheek in disgust, standing and hoisting the basket up. Some time ago, their mother had decided that it would be best to put their resources to good use by sending food to the lesser faeries; every week, she picked apples from the trees in their garden, tucked them carefully away into a basket, and sent one of her sons out to give them away. Lucien had been proud of her thoughtfulness. His brothers had not.

The thin truce that Thatcher and Xavier had seemed to make whilst they teased Lucien seemed ready to break. It had always been like that; the brothers were never around each other for too long, and when they were, their civility always vanished within a few moments. Sensing this, Thatcher nodded curtly, almost mockingly, to both Xavier and Lucien before taking his leave into the manor. Xavier cracked his neck and surveyed Lucien under a dark, judgmental gaze. The red apple in his hand gleamed like blood. Then his lips curled up.

"Enjoy yourself, Little Lucien."

He took one final bite of the apple, his teeth crunching to the core before he tossed it carelessly onto the grass.

All Lucien could hear was snapping bone and falling bodies.

Short chapter, sorry! It could just be considered a prologue, if you like.

Reviews are gladly welcome. :)