She/Her
AO3 Account:
https://archiveofourown.org/users/samhach
I'm extremely averse to social media (too many negative experiences), but I've found too many lovely communities here that I'd love to try and be part of. It helps that this blog is essentially anonymous, since no one in my "off-line" life knows about it. All that said, I'm bad at technology, so please be gentle with me while I figure out this platform!
I'll share my mediocre art and stories here. If you like, please let me know!
Sorry for being MIA for so long (months I think?), life just gets busy sometimes, but I'm nonetheless productive! I started a second job, and have finally gotten a workout routine that I really like, so while things are very positive for me, I'm probably going to continue to be an enigma that pops in and out of existence here.
With all that said, I do have some one-shot fics I've been working on, and I'll post here! Then I'll probably lay dormant for another couple months, haha! But I love you and miss you, and I think about you all the time. <3
Please remember to tag us @lucienweekofficial in your contributions, and to tag #lucienweek2025! If you're posting on instagram, please make sure to tag us or make us a collaborator @/lucienvanserraweek!
Fuck it man I'm tired. Don't buy EA, don't buy Amazon, cancel Disney+, divest from Google to the extent that it's even possible, fuck AI, fuck shareholder profit, play indie games and find a real fucking coffee shop and mend some clothes and learn a craft and like, fuck it man. Move back to the forest and start using acorn caps as currency.
In the midst of Kinktober, I'm here to bum you out with a hurt/no comfort one shot I wrote about my favorite sad boi, Tamlin (also Lucien is there).
CONTENT WARNINGS:
Self Harm
Attempted Su*cide
Read below, or click here to read on AO3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Deep down, Lucien knew this was a bad idea. How many years had it been? Too many to remember. But something was pulling him back to Spring Court, back to his home. Maybe it was just out of curiosity, to see if it was really as bad as everyone said. Maybe it was about trying to get some sort of closure. He knew he’d see Tamlin. And truth be told, he missed him for reasons he couldn't really articulate. And if things really were as bad as people said… it broke Lucien’s heart to think about it. He had to see for himself what things had become, and if there was any possibility of turning things around.
Winnowing there was no problem. All the old wards had long since faded, and it's not like there were any fae patrolling the borders anymore. He was able to appear right on the front steps.
The sight was shocking. The gardens that once had glowed with spring magick were now lifeless, somehow both overgrown and limp and withered at the same time. The house, his home, now stood dull and dilapidated, a shell of its former grandeur. The massive oak doors that once offered protection now hung off their hinges, broken and rotting. Lucien held his breath, and stepped into the old manor.
The great hall was full of smashed and splintered furniture, the chandelier lay where it had crashed onto the cracked marble floor. The plaster ceilings were cracked, threatening to cave in at any moment, and vegetation pierced through the stonework of the crumbling walls.
But there was a light coming from what used to be the study. Lucien gripped the sword at his hip tightly, and headed toward the source of the light. When he reached the study, he peered into the room carefully so as not to be seen. The light came from a small fire that was slowly dying in the fireplace, and next to it was Tamlin, sitting in the only unbroken chair, the only unbroken piece of furniture at all, in the room.
He looked worse than ever. Even in the warm fire light, his skin was gaunt and sallow, with heavy redness that rimmed his eyes. His clothing was filthy, and he wore no shoes. His shirt clearly used to be white, but was torn and stained with sweat as it hung open, barely clinging to his shoulders.
It was hard to tell what Tamlin was doing. At first it looked like he was whittling something, the way he was holding the small knife. He had one foot up on the seat of the chair as he bent over his project, too focused on what he was doing to notice Lucien.
Lucien dared to step into the room to get a better look at what Tamlin was working on. To his horror, he saw there was no project, no wood to whittle or carve. Tamlin had been cutting into his wrist, and from the look of things he'd been at it for a while. There were scars all over his arms, healed over and reopened again and again. As Tamlin dragged the blade across his skin, he opened the gashes deeper and wider, without a single wince of pain. His expression was downright tranquil as he watched the blood pour out of his wrists.
The sight made Lucien’s stomach churn. He was so shocked he couldn't keep himself concealed. “Tamlin,” was all he could manage to say, barely above a whisper.
But Tamlin didn't move an inch. “I'm in the middle of something, Lu, come back later,” he said passively, keeping his eyes on his wrist, continuing to work the knife.
“Tam…” Lucien couldn't understand Tamlin's casual dismissal. They hadn't seen each other in years. He wasn't expecting a joyful welcome, but he'd been bracing himself for some kind of hysterical reaction. “Tamlin, what are you doing, doesn't that hurt?”
“Like a bitch,” he said simply.
Lucien dared to step forward, still in disbelief at what he was seeing. As he got closer, he could see there were scars on his chest as well. The worst of it was over his heart, the place that Feyre had stabbed him during the last trial under the mountain. The scars there hadn't really healed. They were raised, angry red, infection setting in and forming an abscess that oozed puss into his shirt.
“Tam,” he whispered, pity and fear in his voice. Lucien had to try and reason with him somehow, his life was clearly at stake. “Tamlin, you need to come with me, you need to get help.”
“You always say that,” Tamlin answered, never once glancing at Lucien, eyes fixed on the knife as he pulled it across his skin again.
But Lucien had never said anything like that to Tamlin in his life. He was talking to Lucien like they'd had regular contact, like they hadn't been estranged for the last several years.
He mustered his courage and walked straight up to Tamlin. “Please, Tam, let's get you out of here,” and he touched his shoulder to reassure him.
Tamlin jumped out of his seat, knocking over his chair in panic, holding the knife out in front of him. His eyes were wide with horror, like he'd seen a ghost. This whole time, Tamlin had thought he was talking to the version of Lucien that lived in his head, never suspecting the genuine article would actually pay him a visit.
“What are you doing here?!” He spat angrily. “Get out of my house!”
“Tamlin, it's me!” he spoke softly, trying to deescalate. “Please come with me, we can get you to a doctor.”
“I'm not going anywhere. This is my house,” he growled. His eyes were crazed, and sweat began to pour from his brow. He kept the knife pointed at Lucien, still wet with his blood.
“Tamlin you're hurt. Your wounds are infected, you could die!”
“Die?” He retorted mockingly. “Die?! No, the Cauldron would never be so merciful," he smirked. “I've tried so many times.”
Lucien was too horrified to speak at first. Surely he didn't mean what he thought. “What are you saying?”
He shook his head. “It’s not as easy as you’d think,” he said bitterly. “It should have been easy, I’ve watched enough of my friends die to have an idea. But Mother likes to keep me around.” He lowered his gaze to stare lazily at the work he’d done on the arm that was holding his knife. “I think she likes me better like this.”
Lucien couldn’t imagine how to respond. What do you say to something like that? But Tamlin didn’t let the silence last for long.
“I tried drowning first. But I just washed up on shore after I fell unconscious. Then I tried jumping from the top of the manor. Then hanging myself with rope. Cutting my wrists. I even tried shifting into a wolf to scare the humans into killing me, but they just ran away. Finally I got so desperate I decided to just starve myself. I haven't eaten in six weeks. But tell me Lucien, do I look like a starving man to you?”
Lucien looked at him carefully in the dying fire light. Other than the pallid color of his skin, his sunken eyes, and the obvious infection on his chest, he seemed in good shape. His muscles were still strong and well defined, and his trousers fit snuggly on his waste.
“I finally realized why all of my attempts have failed,” he looked from the edge of the knife up to Lucien's face. “I'm the last of my line. Without an heir to inherit the Spring Court, the Cauldron won't let me die. Not without securing my lineage first.” He let out a defeated chuckle, “The Cauldron won't even let me waste away when I starve.”
He threw the knife past Lucien's head, and it smashed into one of the few unbroken pots in the room. The sudden outburst put Lucien on guard, and he drew his sword.
“As you can see,” Tamlin said calmly, “I'm at no risk of dying any time soon. I don't need your help. Now leave.”
“But it doesn't have to be like this, Tam, let me help you!” Lucien begged.
“I SAID GET OUT!” Tamlin screamed before shifting into his beast form, and unleashing a deafening roar.
The beast was enormous, filling the entire room. He bared his teeth as his antlers scraped the ceiling, but Lucien held his ground. Tamlin let out another roar, lifting his paw to strike. Lucien ducked just in time as the claws came crashing down to the ground, splintering the floor where he had stood. It was clear Tamlin was not holding back, and might even kill Lucien if provoked any further. He didn't want to run, but he knew he was no match for Tamlin even in fae form. As a beast? Lucien ran out of the house to escape.
As he got ready to winnow back to his camp, he could hear the beast continue to rampage inside, tearing apart anything that wasn't already completely destroyed. Any hopes he'd had of reconnecting, reconciling, coming home; they were gone. Smashed to pieces, like everything else inside that house.
I said: "make me something that looks like a combination of Dolly Parton and Michael Jackson." I want to shine, I want glitter, I want sparkle, I want to wear something that’s pretty. I’m always wrong anyway, they are always staring at me for some reason, you know, so I might as well do what I want to do and that’s it. - Anne Rice
We need to go back to the fae being frightening and beguiling otherworldly creatures.
The Stolen Child
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.
- W. B. Yates
This poem is in the public domain.
