Shattered Mind Regained
Pairing: Lucien Vanserra x Reader & (Rhysand x Twin!Reader - platonic)
Synopsis: Broken, battered, tortured by Amarantha, your mind is shattered. Your power is unbalanced and raging against the evil that has found its way into your very soul. On the verge of ruin, Rhysand begs you to return to him, to those who love you most, when something snaps. Unleashed and without care, you wreak havoc on the High Lord. Only the name of your mate, a name long kept secret, has the potential to pull you back from the darkness of the abyss in which you currently reside.
Warnings: Magical violence, blood + reference to torture and wounds
Power thrummed; shadows black as pitch coiled around your worn and battered frame. Gaze vacant and unseeing. The glittering lights of Velaris illuminated the horizon, but went unnoticed. The sight had once brought a sense of joy and possibility. It now held nothing in your broken mind. Tense voices filled the quiet air behind you. The owners of those furtive murmurs did not attempt to protect you from their reality. They knew in their hearts that it did not matter, while hoping it would stir something in your soul.
“I am sorry, Rhysand. She- her power… There is something dark that has bound itself there. I can feel her, but…” the healer struggled to find the right words. “Her mind is shattered. No shields, no walls… nothing apart from her shadows and whatever evil has attached itself to her.”
“No. It can’t -” The High Lord faltered, his voice trapped in the horrific realization that so much had been lost despite what he had given. Despite the miracle that had come to fruition in finding you… saving you.
“Is there nothing to be done? There must be something.” Feyre held tightly to her mate, brushing gently down the bond as she spoke. The shake of his powerful hand in hers was enough to send her scrambling for something to fix this, to save him from the guilt that already threatened to consume him.
“I do not know. She is beyond my expertise.” Madja spoke with such gentle concern.
“What do we do… please tell us what to do,” Rhys begged, weak and watery with emotion.
The healer stepped closer, her age-worn hand coming to rest on Rhysand’s shoulder. “Sit with her, talk to her. She’s been alone for so long, trapped in her own mind. Help her remember, and if not remember… then ease her time here. I fear that even with her long-life, her time will be short if she cannot be returned to the land of the living, and that horrid power cleaved from her mind.”
The healer reached for Feyre too, holding her free hand. “Take care with your thoughts; her mind is a snare waiting to snap. Do not venture inside without a path of return, lest you find yourself a prisoner to her darkness.”
The High Lord and his mate nodded, Madja bowing out of the room to give them space. The pair made no move, taking a moment to process. Feyre felt the aching pain that clawed down the bond. His body and mind were itching to fix it all, to draw you back to the surface. His sister… twin. The one who’d never wavered, who'd spent every moment of youth with him. Who’d challenged him. Who’d balanced him when his own burgeoning power had grown to immeasurable heights.
“I’ll give you some time.” Feyre’s was soft against his nerves. Rhys managed to press a kiss to her temple before stepping away from his mate.
Alone in the room with your haunted figure, Rhysand loosed a shuddering breath. The bandages that adorned your back had yet again stained crimson where the wounds below refused to heal, dribbling blood without ceasing despite the healer's attempts to stop the flow. The knarled stubs of your eviscerated wings were a chilling reminder of everything that transpired under the mountain. His horrors were deep enough to last the ages, but yours…were unconscionable.
Chair legs scraped across the flagstone, coming to rest beside your chair. Rhys took the space, wings absent from sight for fear their presence would do more harm than good. The male raged, emotions roiling down his spine. This close, he trembled with the need to reach for your mind. He’d tried so many times since Amarantha had perished, and he’d carried your broken body away from the wreckage of nearly 50 years locked away as the plaything for the evil beings Under the Mountain. You’d been little more than skin and bone when he'd broken you from that cell. Blood flowed unchecked from the parting wounds the Attor had marred you with at the behest of his “keeper”.
Rhy’s broad hands shook with the memory. The sticky heat of your blood coating his skin, soaking his clothes, still as fresh as the day it happened. He could feel the very essence of that night with every inhale. He reached for you, finally breaking that physical barrier, and the chill he found stole the air from his lungs.
“I’m sorry.” That was what he managed to say, every syllable strained. His throat was tight as he shoved down the tears that threatened to spill.
Your fingers were limp in his grasp. No hint of the otherworldly power that simmered beneath your skin reached for him as it always had. The power that had once nearly matched him in every way. The power that had been the source of such great contention. Siblings. Twins. So incredibly rare amongst the High Fae. And to have this strength together… the pair of you were nigh unstoppable.
“Just tell me- tell me what to do. I need- I need you back. We all do.”
Rhysand’s mind jumped to the memory of his return with you in his arms. So much had unfolded so very quickly. Cassian’s blanched face as he held tightly to Mor, who begged, clawing at his arms to let her go to you. Azriel’s shadows filled the space, wrapping around your body in search of any way to help, his face emotionless. And Amren, the creature beneath her skin, stirring, caught in shock and horror. The unrelenting stone beneath his knees as he collapsed under the weight of it all.
His walls were gone, letting in the waking nightmares. Ianthe. Amarantha. Feyre… Feyre… the sickly snap of her spine. His mate. It was too much. The High Lord had crumbled. His darkness flooded the room, power rumbling, screaming for relief, for solace.
He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed when a familiar presence brushed along the bond. The touch was easy and light as the gentle hands of his mate came to rest on his shoulders.
“You need to rest.”
“I can’t leave her alone”
“I know, and she won’t be.”
“Who?”
“Any of us. All of us. You give the word, Rhys.”
“I know they’ll hate it, but not Azriel or Cass. I don’t think…”
Feyre nodded in sullen agreement. Wings. The Illyrian males whose wingspans were something of legend had been stalking the halls ceaselessly since your return. Mor often joined them. A permanent scowl burned into her face as he watched your body failing so completely.
“Mor,” Rhysand whispered, knowing she was already at the door waiting. The hinges squeaked lightly as the blonde pushed into the room. Blanket in hand, the female came to your side, laying the warm material over your bony shoulders. She swallowed hard, mapping the deep hue of purple that painted the skin below your eyes.
Feyre acknowledged her without words, reaching for Rhy’s hand to draw him from the chair. Mor took his place, scooting closer. Everything she’d been dying to say flooded her mind- so much to share, and yet the ability to speak remained distant. Breath after breath, she tried to steady her nerves.
She tried to settle in, tucking her feet up into the chair, under her thighs as she rested her head on your shoulder, but relief evaded her.
“I still haven’t told him.” She paused, desperate for a reaction. “I know, I should… I just- I don’t know how”
Mor grasped your bicep, adjusting the blanket where it had slipped before linking your arms together.
“You’re supposed to tell me what to do. That’s the whole point of-” She choked on tears, the bridge of her nose burning. “I’ve missed you.”
Best friends. For centuries. You’d been with Azirel that day when he had found her clinging to life, a message nailed to her body. The pair of you had weathered so many highs and lows. You were the only one who knew Mor’s truth. You had not flinched at her words the day she had told you, nor any day since. The dark bands upon your wrists were evidence of the bargains you’d struck that day, and the promise of true friendship.
You’d keep her secret ‘till death or her choice to share deemed your silence on the matter unnecessary. And she.. She would never breathe a word of where your heart truly resided. Of the High Lord’s son who you’d loved for so long. Until death or circumstance deemed her part of the bargain fulfilled.
__________________
Morning dawned over the Night Court, flooding the room with silver light. Somewhere in the night, you’d fall asleep with Mor still resting against you. The savory scent of toast wafted in the space, carried by Rhys, whose eyes were devoid of the stars that usually sparkled there. He shook his cousin awake, encouraging her to take care of her needs.
“Food's on the table. You need to eat.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not; none of us are.”
Rhysand watched as she unfolded herself from the chair, muscles stiff and protesting. Azriel’s shadows curled by the door as the shadowsinger came into view. His scarred hands lay clenched by his sides. Fighting himself to stay put. Mor was to him soon enough, her hand on his arm as he led her away.
Your brother settled in next to you. Your eyes were open; he watched as you shifted, adjusting to the lack of warmth where Mor had been. He took advantage, handing you a piece of toast.
“Here.” You made no attempt to reach for it. “You’ve got to eat.
Rhys moved with preternatural grace to kneel before you. “Please.”
His mind searched for yours. Hunting, begging into the void for any fragment of what had been you, and there was nothing. Power flooded his senses. Like calling to like, and yet he felt to sign of you, of your memories, your thoughts. Not even the faintest flicker of emotion stirred.
Rhysand leaned forward, brow pressed to the back of your hands as he clutched them in his.
“I know you’re in there… jus- just come back-”
Your fingers twitched in his hold. The motion was barely there, but enough to slow his breathing. Your name tumbled from his lips. A half-smile caught on his face before the wicked storm of unchecked power slammed into him.
Like lightning on the horizon, you snapped, gripping violently tight against the High Lord. Radiating darkness unfurled, filling the room with the same inky blackness of your mind. Rhys struggled to maintain control, his own magic shuddering in the presence of you and whatever else resided with you. Pulling the reins taut, he scrambled for purchase, bellowing mind to mind for you to surface, to calm, but nothing met its mark.
Trapped in your grasp, Rhysand watched as your violet eyes filled with shadow, no color remaining, only the pitch-dark of a great void. A lock, great and terrible, snicked into place as you battered his shields. Brutal and swift, you shattered them with ease; their protection was mist in the wind.
With your brother still kneeling before you, your power clawed at his own, ripping, tearing, biting. Taking pieces that did not belong to you. Rhysand’s body shook with effort, his magic guttering at your vicious attack, but he never wavered. Even as Azriel and Cassian burst through the door, their siphons glaring, unleashing themselves on you. Even as Feyre, his mate, threw the vast stores of her power at the shield you’d erected around yourself.
The whole of Velaris trembled, the wards around the city bending to your will, weakened and remade. Now on your feet, your shadows closed in around you, blocking you from view. Time stood still as the Illyrians fought for their High Lord, and for the female they had long called their sister. It was Mor’s unhurried approach that drew words from them in the chaos.
“Don’t,” Cassian hollered, panic evident in his cracking voice.
The female did not look back as she proceeded across the room. She tracked the way your shadows tangled as she drew closer. Hand extended, she reached for you, your shield giving way as if it recognized the touch, even as you continued to shred Rhysand’s dwindling stores.
Without speaking, Mor allowed Rhysand to ease into her mind. His own connection with you relayed what she was desperate for you to remember. Images… memories flooded from her. Days spent in the sun, basking in the glory, drunk on excellent wine and stuffed full of sweets. Nights huddled together by a roaring fire while the boys made fools of themselves. Laughter filling the space between you. Countless moments, big and small.
The empty dark seemed to lessen, the enormity of your power shrinking as it allowed some of what you’d stolen to return to Rhysand. Though not all of it. Even then, he could feel the gnawing hole you'd left behind. He breathed sharply at the burning sting as you relented, giving him room to move, but Mor never ceased. Velaris continued to quake. Frantically, she conjured another memory, one you’d shared with her all those years ago, the night those bands of black marked your wrists. As the image formed, Mor found herself keenly aware of Rhysand’s watchful eyes, his own mind privy to the silent exchange. Something akin to shock blanketed his features. This… you’d never said… you'd kept it a secret, but why? He knew why.
The recollection was of an auburn-haired male, your delicate fingers buried in his tresses. Unyielding. Possessive as his russet eyes fluttered shut. His lips joined with yours as he tasted the wine on your tongue. The embrace was molten, radiating a need that only existed between those whose connection went deeper than those without could comprehend.
Gentle words joined the fray: “Lucien… Mate.”
Your power shook, snapping back to you as quickly as it had exploded. Shields gone, you stood bare; Rhysand struggled to catch his breath, muscles twitching from the effort. Exhausted, he rose, holding out his hand to Feyre, who scrambled to him.
“Wait.” His tone left no question. The Inner Circle froze in position, eyes flicking between the two of you. Only Mor stood close, one of the inky bands along her wrist and yours fading to nothing as she remained by your side.
Drawn from your stupor, you bristled at his touch, body aching. Blood flowed faster from your wounds, your magic too spent to stop it. Its wet heat bubbled from the awful, gaping tears along your back, staining everything in its wake a sickening sort of crimson.
Rhysands again spoke your name, tilting his head to catch your gaze. Color had returned to your eyes, a good sign all things considered. But there, beneath the surface, churned something other, something wicked, its presence diminished compared to before, but there nonetheless.
Your attention fell to him, a look of abject horror and guilt taking over your features. Your brother. Your High Lord.
“I’m sorry,” you cracked, voice wrecked and raw from lack of use.
Rhys opened his mouth to speak, to say there was nothing to apologize for, but you were gone. In a flash, your power collected, allowing you to escape. You winnowed, slipping through the cracked wards. The ones you'd torn apart and rebuilt with your rage, your pain, your sorrow… your desperation.
---------------------
Weak and with your well of strength flagging, you slammed into the ground, crumpling under your own weight. Rain softened; leaves of gold and orange tore under your palms. The scent of fire, distant and growing, gave way to something your senses had long pushed to the depths of your memory.
Unable to hold yourself, your cheek pressed into the forest floor, mud caking your skin. Droplets soaked your already shivering frame as that familiar scent grew closer. And there, like a warm caress against the long-dormant bond, was a presence you’d thought lost to time and circumstance.
Feather-light Lucien tested the connection, soothing the thread that bound the pair of you. Beside him stood another copper-headed male whose amber eyes shone in awe and horror.
“Is it her?” Eris spoke first, entreating his brother to let him in.
“Yes.” Was all Lucien could say.
As if roused from his nightmare, Lucien strode across the clearing to you. His sturdy hands shook as he assessed your unconscious frame. Rain slicked along his brow, dripping into his eyes, real and mechanical alike as he held you in his arms for the first time in almost 50 years. So much thinner than the last time. Frail and fragile. And yet… beautiful. His soul cleaved from his body, a broken sob heaving from his chest. You were real. Broken, but real.
The feeling of your closeness was overwhelming, his entire being flooded with a primal urge to protect. To heal. To have you by his side once more, with no one and nothing in the way. His thoughts jumbled, causing him to stumble in the slick mud that pooled around his ankles.
“I don’t-” He had no clue how to find his words, but Eris understood well enough. Where to go? Intuition spoke that going back to Rhysand and his people was no good. The simple fact that none of them had appeared out of thin air, siphons blazing, told him enough.
“Take her to the Day Court.” Eris’s voice boomed over the storm. Lucien’s face must have told of his confusion, forcing his brother to continue. “There is something horrid wrapped around her mind. Surely you can feel it. Maybe Helion can find a way to untangle whatever evil has latched itself onto her. Melded itself with her power.”
Lucien nodded, gaze drifting to your face.
“Go, Lucien! Before those idiotic brutes show up and drag her back to them.”
“And what will you do? This power, it will not go unnoticed, even after we’ve gone. If-” The male couldn’t bring himself to speak of his father, but he knew without a doubt that if Beron were to lay hand on you… on this untapped power… he’d go to the ends of the world to make it his own. No matter if you were destroyed and, by proxy, Lucien in the process. Beron would sooner send your lifeless form back to the Night Court than relinquish this strength. The utter weapon you had become, maybe always had been.
“Leave him to me. Now go, Lucien, and don’t look back. I-I’ll come to find you when the time is right.”
The brothers exchanged glances, acknowledging the sacrifices that were being made. Eris bowed his head before winnowing away, leaving Lucien to gather himself. Breathing deeply, the High Lord’s son filled his lungs with Autumn air, stirring up his resolve. He’d take you to Helion, “Spell-Cleaver,” and the possibility of a new life with you. He’d abandoned hope long ago, but not now. Not with you in his arms once more. With that thought, he let the world bend to his will, one step closer to his salvation and yours.
