Apologies for the long wait! Here is the completed piece between Lucien Lechance and my character (recently renamed) Faelothien. I have a whole lot of thoughts and ideas of how I see their interactions evolving between each other, but that will be a different post for another day.
Under the read more is an accompanying scene based of the image. Hopefully. I kept Lucien consistent. There isn’t a whole lot on him to begin with, which is a shame.
The corridor before the Listener’s hall was hewn of stone older than living memory, its arches worn smooth by the passage of countless footsteps and the slow, ceaseless breath of underground air. Shadows gathered in the hollows where torchlight failed to reach, and between each pillar, the weight of silence pressed as tangibly as stone.
A single torch, affixed in blackened iron, burned low upon the wall, its flame guttering in the faint drafts that whispered through unseen cracks. Smoke drifted in thin spirals toward the vault above, staining the pale stone with the memory of old fires. Beneath that archway stood heavy oaken doors, dark with age and iron-bound. Beyond them lay the chamber where the Black Hand had gathered. The Listener seated in unmoving quiet upon his black-carved chair, the Speakers arrayed beside him in their ordered places, each with their Silencer at their flank, as dark and deliberate as shadows given form.
But not all had arrived. The hall waited, yet Lucien Lachance and Faelothien Elenarith remained near the archway, holding to silence before their entrance.
They stood apart from that shadowed assembly now, poised upon the threshold as though marking the final step of some long, silent procession. The floor beneath them was stone, polished smooth in places by centuries of wear, and there upon its surface faint marks could still be seen—scratches, grooves, the faded outlines of old symbols long since rubbed away by the passing of cloaked figures.
Lucien stood as he always did—arms folded, gaze steady, the line of his mouth neither stern nor indulgent, merely shaped by long habit into something immutable. His robes hung in quiet folds about him: black wool layered over darker cloth, unmarked save for the hidden sigils only a knowing eye might see. His presence was that of a man accustomed to obedience; one whose words were not offered lightly, and who expected their weight to carry without repetition.
At his side, Faelothien stood quieter still. His hands were folded before him with deliberate grace, fingers resting light against one another, yet in the line of his wrists and shoulders there lingered a faint, near-invisible tension—like a harp-string held just shy of sound. His golden eyes did not linger long upon Lucien, nor upon the flickering light ahead; rather, they shifted in restless measure, always moving, never fully still. And though he stood with a poise befitting the blood of Alinor—tall, pale, and as finely wrought as some blade forged for ceremony as much as war—there was about him something quieter than pride: a melancholy that did not mar, but rather deepened, his presence.
The air between them was cool, touched faintly by the scent of old dust and burning tallow. Somewhere deeper within the hall, a single drop of water fell, striking stone with a sound sharp as a pin upon glass.
Lucien’s gaze shifted toward him now, slow and measuring. A man weighing a blade newly forged. And perhaps, beneath that silent watchfulness, there was something else as well—a flicker of private approval, quiet and well-guarded, but present nonetheless.
At length, he spoke.
“Faelothien.”
The name fell into the stillness like iron upon silk—quiet, yet carrying weight.
Faelothien’s head turned slightly at the word, though his gaze did not quite rise to meet Lucien’s. His answer came low and steady, with the careful restraint of one long-trained not to betray too much:
“Speaker.”
Lucien regarded him another moment, his voice falling even lower, a murmur shaped for Faelothien’s ears alone.
“Are you ready?”
There was no softness in the question. Nor doubt. Only the expectation of truth.
Faelothien’s lips parted as though to speak at once, yet he hesitated—just the briefest pause, as though some inward reckoning were required before voice could follow thought. His eyes flicked upward, meeting Lucien’s only for the space of a breath before lowering again.
“I am,” he said. Quiet. Steady. Almost too careful.
Lucien’s eyes narrowed slightly, though not in displeasure. It was the look of a man accustomed to measuring the edge of things: words, steel, loyalty.
“Good.”
The word held a finality of its own. Lucien’s arms lowered, folding instead behind his back—a subtle shift, but one that spoke of readiness. Authority made flesh.
“When we stand before them,” he said, tone as even as carved stone, “you shall speak nothing until called. You watch. You listen. You learn how judgment is weighed among our number. And you carry yourself as befits my Silencer.”
Faelothien’s voice, when it came again, was little more than breath:
“Yes, Speaker.”
Lucien did not nod. He simply turned, his form casting long shadow across the stone as he stepped toward the door. His boots struck the floor in measured, even cadence—each step a quiet echo swallowed by the greater silence of the hall. There was no glance back, for such things were not in his nature. Yet there was pride there—quiet, unwitnessed save in the stillness he left behind.
Faelothien followed in his wake, his steps as silent as falling ash, the long sweep of red hair catching torchlight and shadow in turn. The crimson was no bright flame, but deep and muted—like blood dried upon old silk, marking him always, even here, as something set apart.
His heart carried weight and quiet fear both, yet his bearing betrayed neither.
Thus did they pass into the gathering of the Black Hand: Speaker and Silencer, two figures newly bound by oath and shadow, but not yet bound by trust. And though Faelothien’s eyes did not lift again to Lucien’s, some part of him carried the shape of that moment—etched in stillness, held like breath unspent.