The scent of blood clings to the air, thick and metallic, and Lucien’s battered form lays battered in his cot. His skin is marred with bruises, deep gashes torn across his body, and his ruined eye- Cauldron, his eye. Even in the dim candlelight, you can see the raw, jagged edges where Amarantha’s claws had torn through flesh.

The sight had made Tamlin wretch when Lucien was dragged into the manor.

He shouldn’t be conscious. Shouldn’t be awake, watching you with his one remaining russet eye, dulled with pain but still burning fiercely beneath the agony. He hisses as you tend to him, but it’s more out of reflex than true protest.

“Damn,” he rasps, voice barely more than a whisper. “If I knew I’d be getting such gentle hands tending to me, I might’ve let her take the other eye.” The joke is weak, brittle, something to cope with the pain. He doesn’t expect you to laugh.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, the faint smirk he had managed to muster finally slipping. His voice hoarse when he whispers, “You don’t have to do this...”