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marias-attic · 1 year ago

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.a court of ash and smoke | two.

pairing: lucien vanseera x fem!reader

summary: 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, who had once resented her entire presence, to help and guide her.

chapter warnings: **MAJOR WARNINGS: SUICIDE, SUICIDAL THOUGHTS ** non-con, dub-con, violence

chapter word count: 5237

a/n: I'm posting this a little earlier than intended (was aiming for a new chapter every 2 days) because I've apparently got a scheduled power cut tomorrow (in 40 degree heat - send me prayers). Enjoy folks!

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Ash Arrow

The first man from Amarantha’s court to grace your bed - the first man you had ever taken to bed - was not gentle. He had hit you so hard that your cheekbone bruised, and even your new High Fae strength was nothing compared to these centuries-old Fae. He had delighted in realising that you had bled shortly afterward, and had made quite the spectacle in telling everyone exactly how he had taken your virtue.

After around two dozen men had come and gone from your chambers, and weeks had passed by, you came to learn what it was that you had to do. They would come, take what they wanted, and leave nothing in return. They didn’t want anything sensual or passionate, there was no kissing or foreplay, they simply wanted to bury themselves for an hour or so, and you were the chosen place to do it.

By the next time Lucien had come to visit, you had become quite adept at pretending to be somewhere else, and the dark shapes behind your eyelids became your best friends, come to you every time a knock came at your chamber door and you closed your eyes, praying that it would be over soon.

It had been three months since Lucien’s initial visit, and this time he found you, not in that dank cell, but in the throne room. A High Fae from Hewn City had you sprawled in his lap whilst he swallowed down glass after glass of wine, his hand resting on your upper thigh - you were his property for the night, and damn anyone who might try to touch you.

“Give us a smile then,” the High Fae growled, looking you over. His friends chuckled low and dark. You didn’t speak, and you wouldn’t dare to, instead simply pulling at the sides of your lips until they resembled something close to a smile. You hadn’t smiled in months. You had very little to be joyful about down here under this mountain.

“Y/N?” Your name came as a whisper somewhere behind you, and you tensed at the voice, turning to find the youngest brother of the Autumn Court staring back at you in pure shock. “What are you doing?”

His face had gone deathly pale - as pale as a corpse - and his eyes were narrowed, lips a thin, straight line. The Fae who was currently providing your seat scoffed, glancing at his friends and then back at Lucien with a snarl. “Wait your own turn, Autumn. Unless you want to lose that other eye too.”

Lucien flinched ever-so-slightly, but didn’t make to reply. Instead, he turned back to you, leaning forward slightly. “I have business to attend to, but I’ll find you shortly, ok?”

You nodded, and watched as he hesitantly turned, almost as if he didn’t want to leave you with the Hewn City Fae, and slipped into the crowd. You fought the urge to scream after him for him to take you with him, wherever it was he was going. That wouldn’t go down well with the Fae who’s lap I sat in, and definitely not with Amarantha.

He did keep his promise, however. Shortly after the Hewn City High Fae left your chambers, the soft knock sounded on my door, and you braced yourself for yet another client - you usually only had one per night, but sometimes another would sneak in during the late hours when the throne room party was dying down. However, when the door swung open, it wasn’t a client, but rather the red-headed emissary of the Spring Court.

He entered the room slowly and hesitantly, coming to a stop at the foot of the bed, just as he had done on your first day in the Spring Court. He averted his gaze when he realised that you weren’t properly covered, an issue that you fixed by wrapping the sheets around your chest.

“What are you doing?” He all-but snapped. You hadn’t been expecting to see the anger behind his eyes, nor for it to be directed at you. “What the fuck is this game you’re playing?”

“I’m doing what I need to do to survive,” you countered, echoing Rhysand’s words. “This was the only way.”

“No,” he snarled. “There were plenty of other ways to get out of that cell other than whoring yourself out to the entire court. We were-”

You let the bitter laugh that ruminated from the pit of your chest cut him off, glaring at him as you sat up and faced him, hand still holding those sheets over your naked form. “Perhaps you had a plan,” you snapped. “Maybe you would have found a way out for me. But it’s been three months, Lucien. Three months since you last came, and for all I knew, you were going to leave me down there. You were never going to come back!”

“You think that I would leave you there?” He hissed through gritted teeth. He glanced away again as you rose from the bed and threw a silk nightdress over your body, and you knew even as he glanced back and winced that it still wasn’t enough to properly cover you, the thin, light material practically see-through, and showing the entire length of your legs.

“I don’t know what you would do, Lucien,” I snapped back. “It’s not as if you didn’t make it perfectly clear during those months at the Spring Court that you would rather me gone. Perhaps leaving me here was your plan all along, to get me out of your way so that I didn’t bother you anymore.”

“Y/N,” he growled, and you could help but take a step back from him. That fire burning behind his eye was brighter than you had ever seen it before, stronger and harsher. He was furious with you, and you didn’t like to think what that entailed. “Did I not tell you that I would come here whenever I could?”

He moved to perch on the edge of the bed, fists clenched to white knuckles, frowning once he realised the act that had just been committed between those sheets, but he ignored it, and kept that firm stare on you. “When I told Tamlin that you were going to stay here, he was enraged. He trashed half of the house.” He let out a low and heavy sigh. “What do you think is going to happen when I tell him that you’re whoring yourself out to Amarantha’s entire court?”

“Right now, what Tamlin does is not my concern,” you muttered, moving to sit at the vanity, watching him through the reflection in the mirror. “I need to focus on surviving, on living.”

“You would call this living?” He countered, running a hand over the silk sheets of the bed. “Don’t you see that you are playing entirely into Amarantha’s hand? She wants to spoil you, wants to keep Tamlin angry, to tease and torment him, because she thinks that you are his lover.”

You paused, spinning in your seat to stare at him, mouth slightly agape. Suddenly, everything made sense. Everything that Amarantha had done became clear to you. She was using you to try and torture Tamlin, and this was simply another step in her plan. To see his lover be whored out to her court and know that he was powerless to stop it. Only, you weren’t his lover, and she had made a mistake. You were stuck there because of a mistake. Your stomach swirled in anger.

“But Rhysand said this was the only way,” you whispered, tears beginning to well in your eyes. “He said that this was the only way I could survive.”

“Rhysand told you that?” Lucien scoffed. “Surely you should have realised that Rhysand is Amarantha’s lap-dog. Anything that he says is only ever to benefit himself, or her. You can’t trust him.”

Your shoulders began to shake, just slightly, as the sobs wracked through your body one by one, waves of anger and sadness and frustration and mourning for what could have been, the life you could have lived at the Spring Court, washing over you inch by inch. You weren’t sure when you fell to the ground, when you crumpled onto your knees and began to weep, yet, to your surprise, two strong arms wrapped themselves around you, grounded you and comforted me. It was overwhelming, the information that he had given you was too much. You had gone through all of this simply because Amarantha had wanted to destroy Tamlin, and had thought that you - his supposed lover - was the best way to break him.

“It will be ok,” Lucien whispered soothingly, and you were too wrecked to even spare an ounce of surprise at his kindness. “I’ll come more often, I promise.”

“I’m a fool,” you choked out between sobs.

“Well, as much as I’m inclined to agree,” he smirked. “In this instance, I don’t think so. If you say this was the best way to keep you alive, then I believe you.”

You sniffled, wiping your nose on the back of your hand, and looked up at him. He was smiling - a real, shining smile that seemed to leech through the darkness and coldness of the room. And for some reason, you couldn’t help but reciprocate it. When he saw your smile, he nearly beamed.

“Keep your chin up, human,” he said softly. A calloused finger hitched itself under your chin and lifted it, just as he had said. “And don’t let them know how much it pains you to do this. They will only use it against you.”

“So I truly must stay this way?” You asked quietly. “I must remain as this…whore?”

“Unfortunately, you’ve already agreed to it,” he said solemnly. “There’s little I can do to stop it now.” He paused, twisting his lips in thought. “I will try - I promise you that - but I cannot say that my pleas won’t fall on deaf ears.”

With that, he rose to his feet, his hands on your shoulders pulling you with him. “Now, I have to go,” he said quietly. “I had to sneak past your guards to get in here, and I have to be out before they realise.”

Ah yes, Harden and Carson, the guards that Amarantha had stationed at the door to your chambers, and your two most frequent clients. You watched as Lucien made his way to the door, the gold of his dagger hilt shimmering in the candlelight. He paused, just for a moment, and turned back to you.

“Just remember,” he said slowly. “You can’t trust Rhysand. Don’t take anything he says at face value.”

You just nodded as he threw you one more sympathetic smile, only the second real smile you had ever seen from him, and disappeared back into the hall, the door clicking behind him as he went.

After that visit, Lucien began coming to the mountain once a month, frequently checking in on you, and bringing Amarantha news from the Spring Court - you could only hope that it was false information, and that he wasn’t actually selling Tamlin out.

His arrival would always be the same. You would be in the throne room, surrounded by drunk faeries, waiting for one of them to pick you from the crowd and claim you for the night. Lucien would stride through the door, parting the crowds and earning snarls of distaste from the other Vanserra boys, who you quickly worked out to be his older brothers. He would stop at the foot of the dais, and request counsel with Amarantha, and as they left, his eyes would scan the crowd to find you, offering you a reassuring nod that told you he would find you that night.

He had begun informing Harden and Carson that he was a client, hoping to be serviced by the court’s whore during his visit, and they would let him into your chambers without a second question. He would bring with him news of the Spring Court, only for your ears, and messages from Tamlin. Usually, those messages conveyed only that he missed you, his sister, a title that you had cemented together over those months, and that he would find a way to get you out and take you home. You weren’t sure, when he said home, if he meant the Spring Court or the mortal lands. At the end of each meeting, Lucien would be sure to ruffle his clothes and hair, and you the sheets on your bed and your own hair, lest someone question what you had been doing.

It wasn’t until six months later that Amarantha even realised that Lucien had been coming to your chambers during his visits at all. However, it was on one late evening that you finally realised she knew.

As always, Lucien entered the throne room as you hovered on the outskirts of the room, trying to cover your modesty in the skimpy dress that you wore as you usually did. Your eyes followed his figure as he strode through the room, an heir of unadulterated confidence, and stopped to kneel at the edge of the dais. “I bring news from the Spring Court,” he said, not looking up at Amarantha who lounged in her throne, a goblet of wine hanging from her thin fingers. “I beg an audience so that we may convene and discuss it.”

“Tomorrow,” Amarantha snarled. She leaned forward in her chair, peering down at the emissary. “For now, why not enjoy yourself? You work so hard, Lucien.” She smirked, those red lips curling into the malicious smile that you were so familiar with now. “I heard that you have quite the affinity for my favourite little pet whore. Why not let her show you a good time?”

Lucien’s shoulders tensed, but he bowed his head and rose to his feet, not another word uttered, before turning and scanning the crowd, the throne room now silent, until his golden eye landed on you. He strode toward you, and took your hand in his, making a move to depart through the parting crowd and retreat to the safety and relative comfort of your chambers. But Amarantha’s voice stopped him in his tracks, toxicity laced into every word.

“Leaving so soon?” She sneered. “Why not stay and enjoy the party for a while? I’m sure the whore can keep you company here.”

He winced and turned back to you, scanning your features as if to say, ‘if you’re not comfortable with this, we don’t have to, and I can make an excuse for us to go’. But you just nodded, and watched as his shoulders rose and fell with a shuddering breath. He led you now in the opposite direction, taking a seat at the table on the far side of the room. His legs spread ever so slightly, an invitation to sit, and whilst he grabbed your hips and pulled you down to him, his rough fingertips were still gentle against your skin.

Amarantha rose from her throne, clicking her fingers once to command that the others go back to what they had been doing, before taking slow steps down and long, floating strides toward us, coming to a pause before you. You flinched, but Lucien’s strong hands squeezed at their lingering presence on your hips, a silent comfort.

“I’m intrigued to know, emissary,” her voice snarled. “What does your High Lord think of you taking his lover to bed each time you come here?”

Lucien smirked, but you knew better than to think it was real humour he felt. “What Tamlin doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Amarantha’s sharp laughter echoed above the noise from the party. “Well then, I’ll ensure he never finds out.” Her dark eyes flashed, but Lucien simply tipped his head. She turned to the nearest servant. “Fetch some wine for our guest.”

“Two, please,” Lucien called, and the servant nodded, disappearing for a moment and returning with two goblets of wine. Lucien took one and handed you the other. The wine was the colour of blood, of Amarantha’s lips, of Lucien’s blood that day he had lost his eye.

“You plan to ply the whore with wine?” Amarantha smirked. “It is her job to do as you bid. You have no need to get her drunk first.”

Lucien let out a small chuckle, shooting me a sideways glance. “With the night that I’ve got planned for her, she’s going to need it.”

Amarantha laughed again, and the sound made my blood run cold. “Perhaps I’ve underestimated you, emissary,” she leered. “Enjoy the party.”

Lucien nodded once more, and Amarantha left, but you knew that her eyes were still trained on you and Lucien, watching, studying calculatingly, noting every movement that you both made. You knew what she was doing - she was trying to catch us in our falsehood, to ensure that there were no lies being spewed to her, and that Lucien did in fact have every intention of taking you to bed.

You felt his breath, hot on your neck as he leaned into your ear and whispered, “Just play along. There are too many eyes watching.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. After a while his hand left your hips, repositioning you slightly so that you were no longer perched on the edge of his knees, but instead completely on his lap, flush against his broad chest. One hand snaked its way around your waist, and the other came to rest on your thigh, higher than you thought was necessary for appearance sake, but you didn’t dare argue. You allowed your own arm to slip around his neck, the other cradling your wine, which was emptied and refilled more times that night than you would care to admit to.

Your skin was burning hot, flushed and riddled with gooseflesh. The fear of being caught in your lie was enough to make every hair on the back of your neck stand to attention, especially when a faerie dressed in all-black, presumably from Hewn City in the Night Court, struck up a conversation with Lucien about what he planned to do with you that night.

You winced at the crude conversation, knowing that none of it was true, but even just hearing him speak of you that way was enough to twist your stomach into knots. Lucien’s grip on your thigh tightened and released, tightened and released, his way of telling you that it wasn’t true, that he was just playing a part and he meant none of it. And you knew that already, but it didn’t stop you from downing two more glasses of faerie wine, and allowing the sweet drunken bliss to take over.

You leaned your head back against his shoulder and closed your eyes, taking in his scent. He smelt like the forest after a light rain, like apple cider and cinnamon, and you let the smell envelope you, let his arms hold you in place. The first moment of peace and tranquillity that you’d found since arriving Under the Mountain, and it had come from Lucien of all people.

You could still barely wrap your head around it, how it was he who came so regularly to check on you, he who made you feel better, he who protected you. He had once hated you so much, had resented you and loathed you being in the Spring Court - perhaps he still did. Maybe his words on his first visit had been true, that he simply didn’t think anyone deserved this, not even you. Either way, you were grateful for him, and grateful for the small semblance of normality that came with him.

You felt his hand hook under your legs, pulling them over his thighs, allowing you to nestle closer to him, so close to sleep that had evaded you for so long, finally feeling safe enough to let it overtake you.

When you woke the next morning, you were tucked into your bed, and Lucien was nowhere in sight. You couldn’t help but feel disappointed that he was gone, that the only friend you had in this wretched place, no matter how unlikely, had left without a word. Not that you had expected him to stay. He would never have done such a thing, if only for fear of Tamlin’s wrath should he ever find out that his emissary had spent the night in your chambers, even if only for appearances, and even if nothing would have actually happened.

Yet, you found yourself longing for that smell of him, that feeling of safety that he provided. Lucien, despite himself, despite his hatred to you, had become the only form of kindness that you received, and had quickly become the lesser of two evils. You could deal with Lucien’s snarky remarks and cold glares, even if they were few and far between now, if it meant that you were kept away from Amarantha, and away from her sickening court for even just one night.

He was your safety net now, and as much as you hated that it was him, and as much as he surely thought the same, he was all you had left.

Three years passed by in the blink of an eye, and yet nothing changed. You remained chained to that bed, and remained Amarantha’s loyal little pet whore. Lucien’s visits became more infrequent, citing problems in the Spring Court as the reasoning, and you felt the loneliness slowly taking over, wrapping you in its darkness. You began to fall in on yourself, to refuse food, leaving you nothing more than skin and bone - it always came up after your clients left anyway. You stopped speaking, no longer pretending to be that good little servant to your clients, who feigned laughter at their jokes and faked pleasure in bed. You no longer made any effort with anyone at all. You became a shell of yourself, and everyone could see it.

When, to your surprise, Rhysand came to visit you, appearing in a cloud of dark shadows inside your chambers without so much as a knock on the door, you hadn’t seen Lucien in nearly five months. Rhysand looked you over, curled up on your bed, wrapped around yourself. You didn’t even so much as spare him a glance.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he muttered. It was the first time he had come to your room since the day he had shown you this prison. “Amarantha isn’t happy with how you’re acting. The court’s men are complaining.”

“Go to hell.” It came out in no more than a whisper, your voice aching at the first use for months. Rhysand chuckled.

“I think it’s too late for that. We’re already here,” he stated, circling the bed to crouch down in front of you. You didn’t allow your eyes to focus on him, his face a blur of dark skin and violet eyes and black shadows. “You need to eat something.”

“Why do you care?” You growled out.

“You’re right,” he said, throwing his hands into the air. “I shouldn’t care. Except that I do. I gave a lot to get you this position, to get you out of that cell and save your life. Now you’re throwing away all of my hard work.”

You didn’t grace him with an answer, and he simply tutted his tongue, running a hand through his dark locks. “If Amarantha thinks that you are no longer of use, what do you think will happen?” Again, no answer. “She’ll kill you.”

“Then let her,” you mumbled, fighting back a sob. “Lucie was right, this isn’t living anyway.”

Rhysand groaned in frustration. “Do you think your little emissary would be happy if you were killed?” He snapped. “Do you think your High Lord would be pleased?”

“He’s not my High Lord, and Lucien isn’t my emissary,” was the only reply that you could muster. Rhysand groaned again, but seemed to give up fighting. He knew as well as you did that there was nothing he could do to change your mind.

“Well, if you’re really not going to eat anything, then prepare yourself,” he stated blandly, rising to his feet. “You’ve got an important client coming to visit.”

And then he was gone.

The important client in question was a High Fae from the Autumn Court, and as soon as he entered your chambers you knew him to be one of Lucien’s brothers - the second eldest, if you were correct in your thinking. He hovered by the door awkwardly, as if not sure how to proceed, and you lounged on the bed. You watched him, but didn’t move to bring him closer to you, didn’t spread your legs or edge him into your bed. He pulled off his bow and quiver and placed them on the vanity table, before slowly moving closer to the bed.

It was fast, and messy, and painful, but you kept still, allowing him to take from you whatever he needed, as so many others had done before. It wasn’t until the final few thrusts that you allowed your eyes to open and focus on the mirror across from you, drawing them down to the quiver on the table. Your heart nearly stopped.

Ash arrows.

You knew the stories, that ash arrows were the only way to kill a faerie. Perhaps they would be your salvation, would be your ticket to freedom. The Vanserra brother finished with a growl, rolling off you, muttering something about cleaning himself up, before disappearing into the washroom. You moved quickly and quietly while he was gone, unsure of how much time you had left before he came back. You pulled one of the ash arrows from the quiver, studied it as it sat heavy in your palm for a moment, and slipped it under the mattress, sliding back under the covers, pulling the sheets up to cover my modesty.

The red-head appeared again, and quickly dressed, grabbing his weapons, not noticing the missing arrow. He threw you one last sneer over his shoulder, and made a promise that he would return later in the week. Little did he know that you would be here.

You had hoped that the ash arrow would kill you the second that you plunged it into your stomach, but little did you know that those stories you had grown up on were greatly exaggerated.

It was Lucien that found you. You hadn’t even known that he was Under the Mountain that day, but even through the haze of blood-loss, you could still hear his shouts and cries and wails, could still feel his arms pull you into his lap, his blood-sticky fingers pushing the hair away from your face as he practically begged you to come back, for his sake, for Tamlin’s sake.

A sharp pain erupted through your stomach as the ash arrow was pulled from your body, but you didn’t even flinch, not enough energy to even register the pain. The metallic stench of magic filled your nostrils, and even in your disorientation, you knew that Lucien was trying, and failing to heal you. And then there was another voice, lower than Lucien’s - Rhysand.

They worked in tandem, another wave of metallic magic flooding your nostrils, masking the bitter stench of your own blood as two sets of magic worked to heal the gaping wound in your abdomen. Something dripped on your cheek, blood that had coated the ends of Lucien’s hair and now fell to my face.

Their voices became more distant, foggier and muted, as you wandered closer to that light, to the end of the line.

You didn’t die. You found out later that Lucien had stayed Under the Mountain as you recovered, and had stayed in your room every day until you woke up. Rhysand hadn’t returned, however, but you couldn’t help but consider what Lucien had said about him, about how he couldn’t be trusted. If he had truly been working against you, would he have helped save your life? Maybe it was simply a means to an end, to keep you alive so that you could keep up this charade, and play out his and Amarantha’s plan, yet after that day you had a new-found respect for him.

Lucien was still there when my eyes fluttered open, taking in that same bed-chamber, almost coughing out a cry when you realised that your own plan had failed, and you were still stuck in that prison. He rushed to your bedside as soon as he saw that you were awake, the mattress dipping with his weight as he sat down.

“Y/N?” He whispered the question. You allowed your blurred eyes to fall to him, noting the relief on his face, a peculiar stance for someone who had hated you so much. And yet, you could only assume that he no longer loathed you, for if he did, surely he wouldn’t have spent so much time there, so much time checking on you and protecting you. Surely he wouldn’t have saved your life, wouldn’t have been such a frantic mess when he saw the blood pouring from the wound made by the ash arrow that had been protruding from your gut. In truth, the hatred that you had once felt for him had dissipated too. You didn’t despise him anymore, much to your own surprise, because he was the only kindness that you still had left. He was the only one who seemed to care. “Thank the Cauldron!”

It only took a second for your features to contort and crinkle, eyes screwed shut as the sobs wreaked through your body. Lucien simply pulled you closer to him, and held you as you cried, as you mourned and grieved for your own worthless existence.

“It didn’t work,” you sobbed into his chest.

“I know,” he whispered into your hair. “You’re lucky I was here, and that Rhysand of all people helped.”

“Lucky?” You cried. “You think I’m lucky? I wanted that ash arrow to kill me, I wanted it to end my miserable life! I can’t live like this, Lucien! I can’t do it anymore!”

He pulled back, face pale with shock as he searched your features, brows furrowed. “Y-You mean you did that to yourself?” You let out another choked sob, nodding your head. “Aeryn got thirty lashes for that.”

Aeryn, his brother from the Autumn Court, the one you had stolen the ash arrow from. And it all came down to that; here, under this mountain, your life was worth only thirty lashes against his back. But Lucien didn’t speak of it again, not when you let out another shaking gasp surrounding a wailing sob, and he pulled you back into his chest and rocked you gently. You let that scent - his scent - envelope you once more, just as it had that day in the throne room, and allowed it to comfort you into calmness.

Lucien returned to the Spring Court a few days later to inform Tamlin of what had happened and assure him that you were ok. That, much to your own despair, you were still alive.

And so, your life returned to what it had been. When you were strong enough to return to your duties, the men began knocking on your door once more, and you returned to despising your own existence.

#ACOTAR #ACOTAR fanfiction #Lucien Vanserra #Lucien ACOTAR #Lucien x reader #Lucien Vanserra x reader #lucien vanserra x y/n #rhysand #tamlin

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