Five years before Feyre Archeron ever stepped foot in Prythian, another human girl found herself in the Spring Court. But the trials and tribulations of her time Under the Mountain left her with nothing but a certain red-headed High Fae emissary, wh...
A/N: Hey lovely readers! So I have been a little obsessed with ACOTAR recently (I'm late to the game, I know) and I have been seriously simping over Lucien! I was having a difficult time finding many fics for his character so thought I'd just write one myself! This fic does get a little dark in places, but each chapter will have its own content warnings so you know what's coming! Enjoy!
CHAPTER WARNINGS: Mention of non-con, Violence
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You couldn't remember how you got there. Couldn't remember the cause of the stabbing pain in your abdomen, or the pulsating throbbing in your right temple. All you knew was the bitter cold as it ate through the thread-bare cloak that you had wrapped around your shoulders, hardly enough to protect you from the harsh winter of the mortal lands.
Your surroundings were unfamiliar, unknown to you. You'd had a horse - yes, your horse was here somewhere, if only you could find it. You staggered further, refusing to look at the crimson blood that stained the hand that you used to clutch at your stomach. It was sticky to touch, and you were all-too aware that if you dared remove your palm from that wound, you would bleed out all that much faster, and likely die here, alone in the frost-blanketed woods.
Why had you been out here? Where had you been going? You'd been with someone - Anya. Where was Anya? Anya was dead. You remembered now. They had struck her head from her body. Those awful hooded men who had pounced on you on the road. Anya was dead, but you were alive. And you were lost.
You kept pushing your feet forward, willing yourself to keep moving, away from the men, away from poor Anya's corpse. You had to keep moving, to find sanctuary, to find someone, anyone, who might be able to provide you with aid. Your feet dragged along the ground, frozen twigs and autumn leaves caught in the snow before they had a chance to decay, caught in the hem of your dress, but you didn't look down, didn't pay them any heed. You just walked, one step after another. One, and then another. One, and then another. It was all you could do.
Your head was becoming hazy, and you lifted your free hand to the source of that throbbing, finding more sticky scarlet blood dripping from a wound on your head, stray hair coming away on your pale, frozen fingertips. Just as your vision began to blur, you felt a shock run through your body. You had never seen lightning up-close, had only seen it from the coast of the mortal lands, but you could only assume that to be struck by one of those strikes of power would bear a similar sensation. Your entire body shook, the hairs on your neck and arms standing on their ends, at attention as if your own personal army coming to your futile assistance. There was nothing that could be done now. Your body shuttered, and you fell to your knees, hand grasping at the grass below your fingertips, intertwining with the individual strands, wet with dew. Your knees groaned in defiance as they clattered against the ground, and then your eyes fluttered closed, and you accepted it for what it was.
A comfort. In that moment, you welcomed it, the end of your pain. You welcomed death.
