Feyre hadn't realised that it had been a week since she had been left as Amarantha's prisoner until she was being escorted out of her prison cell by two guards to meet her "visitor." Her arms being gripped much too tightly by both guards, she was almost dragged two floors above the dungeon, through dozens of identical, dingy hallways, as people watched and whispered about her, about Tamlin, amongst each other, until she was shoved into a tiny, stone "meeting room."
Even with barely enough light coming from the pathetic crack in the left wall posing as an excuse for a window, Lucien's long, red hair was prominent—like a wild flame. He stood up as soon as Feyre had entered the room, on the opposite end of a worn out wooden table, and made his way across the floor and enveloped her in a tight hug so quickly that Feyre hadn't even had the time to sign hi at him.
"Feyre," Lucien spoke into her knotted, dirty hair as he held her, and Feyre's heart shattered, her arms flying up to wrap around Lucien's broad torso; she hadn't realised how much she missed her friend until that moment. Resting her head against his shoulder, she soaked in the feeling of home that radiated from him, of being loved and cared for; of having her best friend around to make snarky remarks regarding almost everything she did, making funny faces at her when Tamlin wasn't looking, of much needed hugs—for both of them—when Tamlin wasn't around to see and become his usual territorial self.
Feyre had been so happy seeing Lucien that she hadn't even processed Tamlin's absence. You've been granted visits once a week, now, Rhys had said the previous night during the sixth of their daily sessions of mutual tutoring. So I expect he will be here tomorrow to see you.
Feyre was robbed of opportunity to ask why Rhys had seemed to dislike Tamlin, and vice versa, when a guard showed up in Feyre's cell to notify Rhys that Amarantha wanted him.
Feyre went to sleep thinking of the numerous ways she could kill Amarantha.
"Did they hurt you?" was Lucien's first question when he pulled away and held Feyre by her shoulders, his eyes—the russet and metal ones both—looking directly into her own, his face full of concern. Feyre placed one of her own hands on his, shaking her head. The bruises she had gotten from her first night had almost completely disappeared anyway; she knew there was no point in angering Tamlin, since Lucien would be more than likely reporting to him afterwards.
Nodding slowly, perhaps not quite believing Feyre, Lucien let go of her and nodded to the table. "Let's sit," He said and made his way back to the other side of the table, while Feyre took her seat on the small, rickety chair on her end. She could analyse Lucien better now, from the distance, noticing how unusually unkempt his hair was, how his chin now held copper coloured stubble which he usually made sure to shave, how his eyes were the same kind of jittery a person got when they didn't sleep well. Lucien had been stressing himself. Or perhaps he had been stressed upon by his leader.
Once again, Feyre made a silent prayer hoping Tamlin hadn't punished Lucien too badly for what had happened the previous week.
And then she asked it, signing with her hands, feeling comfort in having someone around who completely understood what all her gestures meant—Rhys had been trying, but he hadn't gotten far enough to understand her gestures; it wasn't his fault, they didn't get much time together in those six days. They had still struggled to have a two-way conversation.
Lucien frowned, his gaze flicking away from her; and Feyre had her answer. Reaching her own pale hand out, she placed it on top of Lucien's larger, interlocked ones and squeezed. I'm sorry, she mouthed.
A small, sad smile appeared on her friend's face. "It's not your fault, Feyre. Stop apologising. Tamlin, he… He had every right to be angry. I disobeyed my Lord, I got you in trouble…" His eyes moved to her face again, live one slow, metal one whirring, possibly doing a quick analysis of her physical condition once more.
What did Tamlin do to you? Feyre asked, despite knowing Lucien wouldn't tell her.
Lucien bit down on his bottom lip. "He…" He started, "Don't worry, it wasn't so bad. I deserved it."
No you didn't, was Feyre's response, her eyes narrowing as she looked at him—fidgety, worried. She knew that, with the little time they had together, there was no point in arguing exactly whose fault that day was, so instead, she asked an obvious question: Where is Tamlin?
Lucien's actions seemed to slow and he held Feyre's gaze, looking confused, contemplative… she wasn't sure. Is Tamlin in trouble? Feyre asked immediately, fear gripping her. Who knew what Tamlin could get into, being as impulsive as he was, and with Feyre's safety in the question…
"No, no, he's not in trouble," Lucien assured, shaking his head, "He's just… busy, with work, trying to get you out."
Feyre could tell it was a lie; Lucien's expressions, his body language, for Feyre at least, were completely transparent. However, she didn't press on, because any topic that involved Tamlin and secrets shoved just one word—one name—into her mind: Ianthe.
But she didn't have the courage to ask her friend about the extent of truth behind that story.
"How about you, Feyre?" Lucien asked, "Are you okay? How… Is it too horrible?" The earnest tone in his voice nearly broke her heart.
Am I okay? Feyre wondered. Right after Lucien and Tamlin had left her, she would have said no, and would have said yes, this place was too horrible. But… Feyre felt her insides heat up for the umpteenth time as soon as the image of bright violet eyes, dark hair, and pale skin—a man of moonlight in the dark sky, as Feyre had once observed—popped into her head.
So she answered truthfully; Lucien was her friend, she trusted him with her life. I wasn't okay, she signed, but I was never afraid. And... this place is horrible, it's cruel, Amarantha's a bitch who I thankfully haven't seen since last week. Lucien had a deep, disturbed frown on his face. But, Feyre continued, I met Rhys, and he's… He's my friend; he's making it better.
Feyre was prepared for the look of utter shock that had appeared on Lucien's face. "Rhys is not your friend, Feyre," Lucien spoke, his tone slightly rough, his eyes wide, metal one whirring. "If he's being kind to you—there's another motive."
He is the only person who's been helping me here, Feyre replied, feeling her temper flare a little: Tamlin was the restrictive one, not Lucien. He is the only one who has told me the truth about Prythian, the truth that even you hid from me, Lucien. He told me about the Seven Courts' names, about magic, that everything Tamlin said about Prythian being a horrible country full of criminals was a lie. He healed me when I got hurt by almost getting raped by two of that bitch's men.
All Lucien did was stare as soon as Feyre had made her confession. She saw him scan her face, the parts of her body that were visible to him above the table, to check once again if she was okay; and she was, thanks to Rhys.
"Feyre," Lucien started, his voice almost a whisper; cautious, apologetic, sincere. "I'm so sorry—I-I wish I had somehow been there for you, to protect you, I—"
Do not tell Tamlin, Feyre signed, hoping her eyes expressed how incredibly serious she was.
"I promise," replied Lucien, and Feyre knew, the way she always knew, that he was telling her the truth. She simply nodded as he reached out and grabbed her hands, before she pulled them away to ask her next question: Why do you hate Rhys so much? What has he done to you?
Lucien seemed to hesitate, until Feyre nudged his fist with her own, and he started speaking: "Rhysand hasn't done anything to me in particular—don't roll your eyes at me, it's not a hate derived from Tamlin. Be patient." Nodding, Feyre signed a quick apology and let him continue. "Did you know he's the High Lord of the Night Court?" Lucien asked.
Feyre frowned. She didn't. Then again, she hadn't gotten the chance to ask him, not with their communication barrier, as he had put it.
"See," Lucien remarked, "Not trustworthy—he didn't tell you one of the most important things about himself." Feyre didn't agree, but she didn't ague either. "He's the most powerful High Lord Prythian has ever seen; and, well, to everyone, except to you, it seems… He's vindictive, cruel… He'll go to any length to get what he wants, Feyre. He's even killed people for it. He's not merciful. I've seen it."
Feyre couldn't see the Rhysand that Lucien was describing to being the same Rhysand who was her friend, who she looked forward to spending each day in that stone hell hole with, who, with his words and gazes and little quips and Feyre darling made her warm up inside.
But, she had known Rhys for barely six days, and in that time they had barely been able to have a conversation; while she had known Lucien for about a whole year, and Lucien was her best friend.
"Feyre, Rhysand killed Tamlin's family."
That was when her heart stopped. Feyre knew Lucien wouldn't lie to her, or at least he wouldn't lie so drastically about something as sensitive as Tamlin's dead family. But the thought of gentle, kind Rhys…
Lucien, please don't make this up, please tell me you're lying. She didn't care how desperate her plea made her seem in that moment; Rhys was her friend and she had grown—even in just a few days—to care so incredibly deeply for him.
Lucien's frown was so prominent on his gorgeous, scarred face. "I'm sorry, Feyre, but it's true," he deadpanned. "Rhys and Tam were really good friends, once, before I had come to know Tamlin that well—I was still under my father in the Autumn Court. This was when both their fathers were still the High Lords of Night and Spring.
"There's always this strange sort of rivalry between Courts. And Rhys and Tamlin—though Tamlin didn't want it—were both in practice for being future High Lords, along with Tamlin's brothers. Anyone could tell, by the way Rhys and Tamlin worked, how they both were during combat, with their abilities and knowledge, that they were going to be incredibly powerful High Lords someday."
Feyre could picture it: a small, boyish version of Tamlin, quiet and gentle and kind, a natural talent, good at everything he put his mind to… yet, not wanting it, as he had confessed to Feyre so many times.
He told her had fantasies of the two of them leaving Prythian together, of living together, getting married, having children, having a home. But Feyre knew, with the familial ties that Tamlin had to his role as a High Lord, with possible other ties he had to Prythian itself, that even running away would never happen.
"One night, three years ago, when Tamlin and Rhys were only eighteen, Rhysand and his father had made their way to Tamlin's family home. I don't even know how they had gotten past all that security. They hadn't even had the mercy to simply stab them, which would have given them quicker deaths. Instead, Rhysand and his father cut Tamlin's brothers into pieces. What's worse is that they didn't just kill Tamlin's father in his sleep, but his mother too—she was the only person Tamlin truly loved, Feyre, before you."
He killed them, he killed them, Feyre kept repeating in her head, and suddenly, her body numbed with guilt, with hatred for Rhysand, with yearning for Tamlin—who she loved and missed so much.
"Tamlin had killed Rhysand's father as soon as he realised what had happened and came out of his room," Lucien continued, unaware of the pain for Tamlin that was now threatening to explode inside of Feyre. "And then it was just Rhys and Tamlin, and being the pathetic coward your so-called friend is"—Feyre had never experienced Lucien sounding so harsh—"he fled the Spring Court. Tamlin didn't stop him, I don't know why, and it seems, neither does Tamlin. But they've hated each other since then."
Feyre wanted to see Tamlin so bad, to hold him, kiss him, tell him she missed him, tell him she's sorry.
She wanted to hurt Rhys for what he had done to the man she loved.
"And then, just under two years ago, came Amarantha, and she played all the Seven Courts of Prythian for fools, acting like our friends, helping all of us out, and within a month of her stay, she had us all wrapped around her finger: all Courts were neck-deep indebted to each other, and further indebted to her; she became so powerful she managed to bring back even a sliver of our extinct magic to use it to curse us. She had brought up a "Court" of her own, and started several more dealings—she took over Prythian's weapons department, our ships—everything, Feyre. She… We say Prythian is led by the Seven Courts, but she's been the real ruler; she calls herself the Queen of Prythian. And as soon as Amarantha showed her real colours, Feyre, Rhys had turned into her lap dog—it helps that he used to, or still has, the most power in all of Prythian. So you can imagine how good a pair the two of them make together, how they've tied us all up to this rotting chain of dealings and trade and rivalries in Prythian. And there is no way we can get out."
Bitch, Feyre spat the word in her head, wishing it would have been easy to kill Amarantha, to get rid of the virus in Prythian that was Amarantha.
Prick, she thought, her mind sweeping to the man just minutes ago she was ready to defend, the man who she thought was her friend. Prick. Prick. Prick. Prick.
"Feyre, I hope you understand why Tamlin acts the way he does with you," Lucien spoke, his warm, clammy hand squeezing hers. "He just doesn't want to lose you, the way he lost his family, his mother. And seeing you with the man who did it… it would crush him."
She did understand, or at least, she tried to, as usual… But probably more than usual.
Lucien's voice was incredibly soft now. "A-and after the incident—your incident…" Feyre looked away, feeling small. "I'm sorry," Lucien said, noticing her discomfort, "But ever since that day, he's not been the same, Feyre, he feels the need to protect you. So you can imagine how much it's killing him that you're here—with Amarantha, and with Rhysand."
After Lucien had left—or rather, been escorted away after Feyre's "visiting time" had run up, she had been led back, and locked up, in her cell once again. She knew Rhysand would be arriving soon, for another session of tutoring, and in preparation, she started trying to teach herself, trying to practice writing, with the help of the books she had hid in the corner, under a dark blanket—all of which Rhys himself had lent to her.
Feyre was going to learn to read and write just so she could tell Rhysand what a pathetic prick he was and how much she wanted to claw his eyes out.
Well—she could do the latter, but seeing how Rhys had singlehandedly taken care of her attackers a week ago, and from what Lucien said, she knew it would be a hopeless attempt—one he could kill her for, apparently.
However, by the time Rhysand had arrived in the dungeon—his arrival eerily already being known to her before he had physically made it clear—Feyre hadn't learned even half of what she needed to be able to convey her message.
"Good evening, Feyre darling," Rhys purred, like a lover returning home—which. He. Was. Not.
Feyre simply shot him a glare as soon as he stepped into her cell, closing the door behind him, a much too comfortable smirk on his face.
"What's the matter?" Rhys asked, taking a seat on the dirty, cold floor next to her, too close for her liking. She felt the same chill, the same electricity, as his arm brushed against hers, despite their tunics acting as barriers. But at the same time, with the chill, came dislike—hate, almost.
When Rhys' careful hand reached up to brush away the curtain of her hair that separated their faces, Feyre fought the buzz she felt inside and pulled away, shifting quickly to the opposite wall, her face twisting up in disgust—more for herself than for Rhys.
Rhysand's dark eyebrows knitted together in confusion, his eyes reflecting… hurt.
But Feyre wasn't buying it: this act, him pretending to be kind, to being her friend—possibly just to spite Tamlin.
"Feyre?" Rhys asked, his voice low, and Feyre shot up to her feet, her body in argument with the part of it that felt seduced by the stimulating effect of his voice.
Prick, was the first word Feyre threw at him, her hands going wild as she gestured the rest. Liar, cheat, murderer.
"Feyre, you know I don't understand what those mean." He was too calm, too gentle—too friendly.
But Feyre still continued. You killed them, he was your friend and you still killed his family over your sick thirst for power, and now he's in more trouble because of your bitch mistress and you feeding her your power—and you think you can lie and win me over because I'm clueless? Because I'm mute, pathetic, fragile? You may have saved me once, Rhysand, but I—
"Feyre!" Rhys was on his feet, eyes wild. "I. Don't. Understand." He repeated, stepping closer to her, making Feyre step back with each advance. "What happened?"
Feyre couldn't stop herself now. The man I love is going through utter shit because of you, and I was stupid enough to think you're my friend, to have these feelings… the way you make me feel…I've been betraying Tamlin within less than a week of being here while he's going crazy at home to get me back—
Her hands stopped moving as soon as Rhys' own had cupped her face, fitting her as perfect as gloves. Beautiful violet eyes stared directly into hers, just inches away, concerned, before they fluttered closed and his face leant closer. Feyre held her breath, prick, prick, prick, going through her head, despite how her heartbeat quickened, despite how his scent—citrus and the sea—seemed to envelop her, overwhelm her; there was nothing she could do, she was stuck between a stone wall and Rhysand as his soft lips touched her cold skin, kissing away the tears she hadn't realised she had released, making her body shiver, her heart beat even faster.
Tamlin, she thought, immediately bracing her hands on Rhys' chest, feeling his rather quick heartbeat even through his thick tunic, and pushing him away; she had barely managed to move him as a result, but he pulled back voluntarily, looking hurt—Liar, Feyre thought in her head. "Darling," Rhys whispered, his hand brushing her hair away from her face, "Please," his voice suddenly uneven, like a boy's.
She needed him to get out, before she hated herself even more than she already did for betraying Tamlin, for falling so easily for Rhysand's tricks. So she looked him directly in those glassy, violet eyes and mouthed the one word she knew would strike him—the one would that would have had the same effect on her: whore.
And Rhys must have understood from the movement of her lips: his wounded expression, the way he pulled back and stepped away from her in shock confirmed so. "Feyre," He whispered, his voice breaking in the middle of her name.
She looked away then, and didn't watch him leave.