Spring Court - High Lord's Estate - Day 12
The gentle whirring sound Lucien's new eye made each time he moved it took more getting used to than the feel of it inside the socket.
Nuan, an alchemist, and one of the very few people remaining in the Dawn Court had done an excellent job crafting the replacement eye for him. She had sized it to perfection, helped him install it and made sure the fit was comfortable within the structure of Lucien's face. Slipping it past the mask was no easy feat, but Nuan was nothing if not resourceful. She had made the final tweaks to the orb after it had been permanently situated in the socket.
She had warned him that it would take some getting used to. And now it was clear she was talking about the greater scope of his situation.
Almost two weeks had passed since the masquerade and although the worst of the pain had subsided, Lucien still grieved the loss of his eye. He didn't regret what he'd said to Amarantha - the bitch deserved that plus more. And he'd say it again if the opportunity presented itself. It was the starkness of everything that he grappled with. The eye was gone and there was nothing to be done about it — no loopholes, no going back.
Frankly, it was just something he had yet to come to terms with, despite much larger and more important matters at hand.
His thoughts concerning his new prosthetic were carefully concealed from Tamlin. On the outside, he presented himself as though losing an eye was a common enough occurrence that it barely affected him. Tamlin had enough to worry about. He didn't need to feel the additional guilt of Lucien's vanity.
And it wasn't that he was vain about his appearance so much as he was just…discomfited. He felt apart from himself when he looked in the mirror. Like the reflection staring back at him was someone else completely. And he knew that it came down to much more than just the unfamiliarity of his new visage.
Sleep evaded him—nightly. He maybe scraped together one or two hours, non-consecutively. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw her finger coming toward him, hooked and tipped with a blood-red fingernail. Each night he suffered her gouging out his eye again and again.
It was exhausting. But he stuffed the trauma down as hard and as far as he could. How could his situation possibly be worse than Tamlin's? Than anyone still trapped under that Cauldron-forsaken mountain? He felt ridiculous—silly.
It was just an eye. It was just an eye.
And really, most of the scarring was concealed by the mask. The fucking mask. Being forced to wear the infernal face of a fox day and night was downright grating. He hated it less than his prosthetic, but would not trade one for the other.
He splashed cold water on his face once more. Nothing got underneath the mask—not water, not heat or air, nothing. It was like the mask was fused to his skin.
Morning light streamed in through the window, the slanting golden rays made the curves of his mask glow softly. Another beautiful day. Lucien groaned.
Each day since they returned from Under the Mountain was largely the same. Tamlin held a morning meeting in his office with most of his retinue. The servants went about their duties. The estate was maintained in exactly the same militant fashion as it had always been.
But there was grim perseverance that hung thick in the air like a dense early-morning fog. Though everyone upheld their tasks, they were somber, going through the motions of their day rather than living for it. Hardly anyone spoke. The once bustling hallways were silent as tombs. The only sound came from birds outside the shuttered windows. The happy chirping seemed almost vulgar as it permeated through the quiet manor.
Lucien donned his breeches, then his shirt, waistcoat, jacket and finally his boots. He tied his hair back with a velvet greet ribbon, his motions muscle memory and almost involuntary.
He didn't look in the mirror on his way out his bedroom door.
Before he reached the first landing, Lucien could hear indistinguishable shouting. His pace neither faltered nor increased. It was another bad morning for Tamlin, it seemed. Every morning seemed to follow the same course, much like his own mornings had since they returned. And Lucien once again felt justified in his decision to keep his inner turmoil to himself.
A glass shattered, boots thumped hard against the carpeted floor in quick succession. Another glass shattered—probably the window again. There was a brief moment of silence, then another enormous crash. Lucien sighed, and this time, he did pick up his pace.
When he opened the door to Tamlin's office, he found that the window indeed had been a casualty of his rage. Shards of glass were scattered over the highly polished wood of Tamlin's desk and the paperwork scattered across the surface was reduced to clippings. Splintered wood from the window panes stuck out at odd angles, still attached to the frame despite the absence of much of the glass. On the lawn beyond the window, Tamlin's chair rested on its side, one arm crushed, cushion shredded with four telltale gouges.
Tamlin stood in the corner, chest heaving, claws out and festooned with the tattered fabric from the doomed cushion.
Tamlin's temper had always been a defining characteristic of his. In all the time Lucien had known him, he had been prone to bouts explosive rage, albeit, infrequently. But he was often easily placated. Lucien chalked it up to latent anger due to the sudden and violent loss of his father and mother at the hands of the former High Lord of the Night Court. He had lost his entire family so suddenly and had no real idea how he was meant to rule. Everything he had achieved, he had managed by stark and bitter determination. There was a chip on his shoulder—it was easy to see. But Lucien admired the man he was, the man he had become in spite of the heavy weight of his past. Tamlin was his friend and he would always stand by him. Until the very end.
"Tam," he began, taking a tentative step into the room.
Tamlin whirled around to look at Lucien. His eyes were glazed and distant, as though he hadn't heard Lucien enter at all. When he realized it was his friend, he straightened suddenly, like he had been shaken by phantom hands to snap out of his reverie. Slowly, his claws retracted back into the skin of his swollen knuckles. His hands shook subtly as he ran them through his shoulder-length golden hair. Tamlin closed his eyes briefly and swallowed.
When he opened them again, Lucien could see that he had returned to himself. "Lucien," he said shakily, "come in."
Lucien didn't hesitate as he entered. He didn't want his friend to think that he was afraid. It was something that Lucien was increasingly conscious of as Tamlin's episodes of rage grew more frequent. The servants cowered when he began to ramp up, dispersing as quickly as birds sensing danger in an open valley. Lucien didn't blame them. The sheer amount of power Tamlin possessed was intimidating, even to other members of nobility, and even to some of the High Lords themselves. And although those powers had been greatly diminished thanks to Amarantha's curse, his well was still deeper than what was typical.
"I like what you've done with the place," Lucien said, attempting levity. Tamlin's sigh ended on a chuckle.
"I'll call for a repair," he muttered.
"It's a nice breeze though, isn't it?" Lucien said. "Why don't we go for a ride?"
"The meeting—"
"Fuck the meeting," Lucien said. "Let's go." He turned on his heel and led the way out of Tamlin's destroyed office. Tamlin didn't immediately move, but Lucien kept his pace and sure enough, he heard the sound of glass crunching beneath Tamlin's boots as he followed.
"The horses need some mental stimulation," said Lucien as Tamlin caught up to him. He was trying to convince Tamlin that they weren't just going for a joy-ride, that they were doing something, completing a task, checking something off a list. Tamlin often felt trapped, stifled in terms of what he could do, if anything. Fifty years seemed such a short time, but the hours stretched endlessly before them. Day after day after day. The days behind them already felt like a blur of nonspecific efforts, indistinguishable moments that leapt from one to the next. They were both itching for something substantial to grasp at. But there was nothing. It felt hopeless.
The horses weren't the only ones that needed mental stimulation.
They saddled their mounts in silence, dismissing the stablehands that offered to assist. Even the stables had devolved into a gloomy place. Lucien knew the horses were let out to pasture daily now that hardly anyone was going for rides just for fun. And while the horses seemed to be fine with their new routine, the stablehands had adopted the same morose countenance as the rest of the staff.
Lucien led the way from the stables and out toward the rolling meadows North of the estate. Tamlin kept pace beside him on a grey dapple mare named Shilo. Lucien's own mount, a muscled chestnut mare named Clover, whinnied at Tamlin's every time she nudged her with her nose. It was clear the two mares were close—they rode together easily, but teased each other with good-natured jabs every now and then.
The silence under the immeasurable openness of the bright blue sky was less repressive than the silence in the manor. Lucien supposed that was because it wasn't really all that silent. There was birdsong, but the sweet sound of it was a balm against his clenched heart instead of a blight. A gentle wind swept through the long meadow grass with a soft hiss, giving the vast land before them the appearance of a great copper and emerald sea. The thunking of eight hooves against the lush grass carried a degree of unusually gratifying dissonance as they pushed forward.
It was a peaceful ride—the first true moments of peace Lucien had felt in the twelve days they had been home. But as they crested a grassy knoll and pulled their mounts to a halt to gaze out over the undulating valley below, Lucien could feel the tension pushing back in.
The silence stretched on for a moment more. Lucien watched a swallow swoop low over the tall grass then flare its wings wide in a graceful glide.
"I should have accepted her." Tamlin's voice was hollow, tortured. It sounded as though there was a ball trapped in his throat and he was fighting it down with every breath.
Lucien was not surprised at the direction his thoughts had traveled. He didn't blame Tamlin for thinking it, for saying it. In his darkest moments, Lucien had found his mind had traitorously thought the same. He had followed the same agonizing path Tamlin's had no doubt traversed over and over again.
Should Tamlin have accepted her? Certainly the easiest answer of all was yes. Accept her and grant Prythian its freedom. Accept her and spare everyone whatever fate they were suffering Under the Mountain. Accept her and retain the powers bestowed upon him by his noble bloodline.
Accept her and be her prisoner. Accept her and remain leashed to her for eternity—and Cauldron-forbid she bore any children. Accept her and relinquish any and all freewill.
Was it worth it? Would Lucien have done it for the greater good? Perhaps. But what did freedom at Amarantha's hand even look like for Prythian? There were so many variables, and none of them were good ones. The game Amarantha was playing was a nasty one, riddled with trickery and cruel machinations.
"Don't say that, Tam," Lucien said after a long pause.
Tamlin raised his face to the sky, the morning sun glimmering off the foliage carved into his golden mask. "I should have done something. I should have stopped her somehow. I—I could have stopped her. I could have accepted her." Tamlin spoke to the sky, to the clouds and air and the small crescent of the moon that still held fast to the sun's domain.
Lucien saw the pattern of his mind at work as he spoke, the cyclical argument that he appeared to be having with himself. He could have stopped her—and he could have stopped her by accepting her. He saw no other way.
"It wouldn't have been the end, Tamlin, and you know it. She is a vile creature and she wants to take and take. She wouldn't have been satisfied with just ruining your life. She was going to destroy them all with or without you at her side," Lucien said, twisting in the saddle to try and catch Tamlin's eye. But Tamlin still wasn't looking at him. His gaze was out past the furthest tree on the horizon line. Lucien could tell right away he either didn't believe him or he didn't care. "Are you so ready to sacrifice yourself?"
"Shouldn't I be?" Tamlin said suddenly, and whipped his head around to level Lucien with an anguished look. His eyes were red-rimmed, shot through with fine lines of ruby blood vessels. They had a wildness about them as they skidded between Lucien's metal eye and his natural one.
The question threw Lucien off. "No—" he began but Tamlin cut him off.
"I should be ready to die for my people," he said. "I should be ready to sacrifice myself, my happiness, my wants and needs. Should't I?" His voice was garbled and Lucien could tell he was fighting back tears.
"Sometimes decisions must be made that go far deeper than just what appears on the surface," Lucien hedged carefully, but Tamlin was spiraling quickly. His mare, attuned to her rider's intense emotions, pawed the grass nervously, shifting her weight from hoof to hoof.
"And what is a more noble reason than protecting my people?" Tamlin asked.
Lucien paused. It was the wrong thing to do. Tamlin dropped his masked face into his hands with a wretched groan.
"I see how they look at me, how they resent what I've done, the decision I've made," Tamlin muttered into his hands.
"That's not true," said Lucien, quick on the draw this time. "It's natural for them to chaff against this new normal. They understand the sacrifices you have made and they will come around. No one wanted Amarantha as the lady of the Spring Court. And no one wants Amarantha as the so-called queen she has crowned herself now." Tamlin's shoulders drooped. "She is a blight on this land, Tamlin," Lucien said with ferocity. "And instead of wallowing over what more could have been done, we must focus on what needs to be done to break her curse and free Prythian from her clutches."
When Tamlin didn't look up, Lucien released his reigns to reach over and squeeze Tamlin's shoulder.
"Tamlin," Lucien urged. Tamlin looked over at him pitifully. "We need a plan and we need it now."
Lucien had always expertly walked the line with Tamlin between tough love and permissiveness. There were instances in which Lucien had no business intervening. He gladly stepped aside and let Tamlin call most of the shots, as was his right to do as High Lord of the Spring Court. But, there were instances few and far between, where Lucien could not sit back and watch things unfold without inserting himself. Despite his current circumstances, Lucien had been raised in the heart of the Autumn Court. He had been privy to the inner workings of court life, the scheming, the plotting, the tactical maneuvering. This was one of those instances where Lucien felt it was his duty to apply all he had learned against his will. The next fifty years would be one long, painful instance.
"We have to find a way to stack the deck in our favor. There must be something we can do to lure a mortal woman into our lands."
"Not with the wall," Tamlin muttered.
The wall, Lucien thought, was a problem. But it didn't have to be. The Spring Court was the only territory that bordered the mortal lands, giving them unfettered access to the wall. Not only that, but since the wall was technically on Spring Court land, whatever interactions they had with the wall would be completely unobserved.
"Who is charging the wall with magic now that most of the courts have been detained Under the Mountain?" Lucien asked aloud, though he already knew the answer. He needed Tamlin to begin following him through his thought process in order for him to understand what must be done.
After a moment, Tamlin said, "I—I'm not sure."
Lucien nodded. "It will weaken," he said and paused to glance at Tamlin.
"Yes, over time," Tamlin answered slowly.
"Yes, over time," Lucien repeated. "Time is a luxury we don't have, I'm afraid," he said. "We'll need to help it along."
Tamlin turned to look at him and finally Lucien saw a spark in his grass-green eyes. He forced down the smile that was building at the sight of it.
"What you're suggesting is a direct contradiction to the treaty we've signed with the other courts," Tamlin said.
Lucien barked out a laugh. "Fuck the treaty, Tam. I'd say we're pretty far past upholding our oaths at this point, wouldn't you?" Tamlin nodded gravely. "Good. Send me and the rest of the men to the wall. We'll examine it from pole to pole, look for weaknesses. And there will be weaknesses. Where we discover any imperfections in the magic, we'll simply…push a little bit," he said with a casual shrug.
Tamlin began to nod as Lucien laid out his plan. He turned in his saddle to look over his shoulder at the southern horizon where the wall existed beyond their sight.
"Ok," breathed Tamlin. "Ok."