In Shadow and Death

004

Stale and scanty were the wonderfully sequinned hallways of the Spring Court. An obnoxious juxtaposition of the mystified woman now racing down them, lithe fingers masking the bottomless breach of crimson glory pulsing at her pilloried neck.

Merikh hadn't felt this impotent in decades, the irrepressible feeling of insignificance and debilitation weighed heavily as she traipsed languidly through the interchangeable hallways, each hall as deceivingly decorated as the last.

No shadows followed her, no companions to keep her anchored or secure, just her own oscillating mind as she staggered herself across the burnished floors, polluting the delicate hues with a callous crimson.

The yawning abrasion would blockade itself shortly, but neither the throbbing or the horror would wane for a while.

A jarring door creaked somewhere behind her, resounding through the desolately silent foyer and stilling Merikh as she strained the wound firmer with willowy fingers, willing the rainfall of irradiant blood to finish.

"Merikh?" Called out an astounded and hoarse, male voice, his sluggish rasp a familiar distinction.

Lucien Vanserra wavered wearily by his sumptuous bedroom door, orange hair tousled with a comfortless sleep, tanned skin ardent beneath the Spring Court's omniscient radiance.

He rubbed drowsily at his russet eye, advancing indolently toward that coarse essence, "Merikh, are you bleeding?" He inquired dumbly, qualified nostrils scenting the aromatic mutation.

It was otherwise tenebrous, only her silhouette displayed by the covetous shadows, but that grotesque scent was broad and palpable and as the fox drew nearer, Merikh began backing out of the stuffy foyer, trembling hands feeling for a vice along those florid walls.

"Leave it." Merikh cautioned, hands blundering along a bejewelled console table, dopily toppling over a viridescent vase, expensive china shattering raucously across the solidified floor.

"Merikh!" Lucien called - yelled out to her as though he cared, his lone, amber eye ablaze with concern as he emerged before her, that fiery hair a vibrant mass beneath the quiet lamp.

Merikh's shoulders fell embarrassingly flaccid as she propped herself up on the obsolete console, groaning her fragility as fragments of broken china nested into her skin.

Lucien was there in an instant, apprehending her slender elbows and tugging - tugging until she stood on tremulous legs, until that crude mark surfaced beneath the dainty light, baring her disgrace.

"Did he - Tamlin did this?" Lucien breathed, the question a stupidly rhetorical one - because he knew what his High Lord was like, brutish and unreasonable, and dishonour became a palpable conscience, the remembrance of dread on Feyre Archeron's face after months and months of pleading and unrelentingly loyalty.

He would do something for her, he would help Merikh - if only because he couldn't help Feyre.

The shame of submission weighed heavily as his curious worry grounded her, an acute stabbing sensation teeming in tandem with the airy dampness dwindling down her arms in a gentle caress, "It's fine." Merikh gritted, that ordinary numbness clouding her melanoid eyes.

"It's not fine, Merikh." Lucien differed, his face a stone edifice as he anchored her with careful hands, analysing the plains of her deadened face, her eyes a vacant storm, "Let me help you."

Something came back to her then, a lustre of benevolent light as she acknowledged his authenticity, "Why?" Merikh croaked, her distant sensitivity a redundant feeling.