A.N.: Thank you so much for the reviews!

Face-claims for this story: Nesta: Marion Pascale, Tamlin: Ton Heukels (seriously, he's beautiful!) Azriel: David Gandy.

I had House of the Dragon on the brain when I was fine-tuning ideas for this story's plot and was struck by inspiration by the dynamics between the Greens and the Blacks!

I really hate how SJM tore Tamlin down purely so she could raise Rhysand up, especially after his abuse UTM, and I find it horrifying and devastating at the same time that Tamlin canonically has literally no-one else in the Spring Court. I find it…lazy world-building, especially considering Tamlin was the one person Fae fled to for protection during Amarantha's reign. It seems to me that others would be able to see Tamlin's worth even if Feyre and the IC have blinded themselves due to their prejudice. So I'm going to introduce some OCs. Tamlin needs friends – friends he entrusts the protection of his lands to, friends who don't need to live in his pocket. I'd like to explore Tamlin as being the person Rhysand likes to believe he is – the egalitarian, feminist leader and brilliant strategic thinker who does his best for his people.

Also, I was watching Cinema Therapy on YouTube and their Psychology of a Hero series, focusing on Mad Max in Mad Max: Fury Road, and a lot of the things Max is diagnosed with apply to Tamlin. It's worth a watch.

Music that really complements the Nesta I imagine in my head is: "Maleficent Suite" from the first Maleficent film especially and "A Lannister Always Pays His Debts" and "The Last of the Starks" from GoT. Sweeping and majestic, nuanced and layered, delicate at times and eerie, growing more dramatic and strong.

A House of Flame and Flower

02

Sanctuary & Squalor

The logs of the open fire snapped and popped as the flames licked at them. Across the flames, Tamlin unabashedly watched Nesta Archeron.

Though she sat eerily still, he could hear her heart racing, almost a purr in his ears. He had never seen anyone watch the flames the way she did – not the flames, but rather the wood snapping as it was greedily devoured. As the sun dipped low to the horizon, making the edges of looming black thunderclouds burn golden, the sky seemed to bleed, vivid reds and oranges giving way to purple, and the evening became brisk. The breeze that had kept him cool all day now carried a bite. And yet Nesta Archeron sat outside the warmth of the fire's embrace, watching it carefully, shrewdly, as if worried at any moment that it may attack.

She hadn't said a word as she followed him through the woods and meadows toward the palace, though at times he heard her stop, dawdling to examine wild meadow orchids and inhale deeply as she stood under arbours groaning with honeysuckle and dainty spray-roses. The endless meadows and pastures had given way to walled gardens each designed with their own unique themes, full of fountains and statues and romantic follies, pools and bridges and secret spots in which to while away the long afternoons, natural and wild and exquisite, becoming more and more restrained, orderly, intricate topiary and trellises and trailing roses and clematis and every delightful climber that cast its perfume into the air draped over pathways that intersected meticulously tended parterres overflowing with flowers of every imagining. Nesta had followed him through them all, never speaking, but he could hear her breaths becoming calmer, her scent shifting ever so subtly as delight sparkled off her.

He had scented her even in the foul, infected waters of the kikimore's lair. Pinned beneath the surface by those hideous claws, he had…he had been thinking what a blessed relief it might be… To just drift away.

Then he had scented her. Something warm and comforting - caramlised figs, camellia and vanilla – with a tangy aftertaste like the air after a lightning-storm. He remembered the tang. He remembered it tickling his nose in Thesan's airy palace, drifting on the breeze as she stood before them. He had known who stood at the edge of the pond before he had chosen to fight his way to the surface.

He had heard her heartbeat like a drum in his ears. A siren-song almost, even if he had imagined it: Live, live, live…

She had gaped as he hauled the kikimore's carcass out of the water, grey-blue eyes wide. Yet she hadn't run screaming. She hadn't attacked him, either, which he would have expected from one of them. The Night Court's denizens had absolutely no reservations about lashing him with abuse at any opportunity.

And he knew enough about Nesta Archeron to be wary of her sharp tongue. Yet she had remained silent as they traipsed back to the palace, through endless gardens he had known and loved all his life. He had never seen the parterres so unkempt – yet he loved them more for the gentle and persistent rebellion against order, against restraint. For too long they had been pruned and trained, until they were nearly unrecognisable: now they were becoming themselves again, given the freedom to grow, unafraid of any wayward secateurs or shears coming to punish them for daring to grow too large.

He knew that relief intimately. He also knew the threat never really went away.

There was always someone there to cut him down if he grew too strong.

Tamlin watched Nesta. He remembered her from Thesan's palace, straight-backed and proud, vicious and calculating – elegant and unyielding. He remembered her impassioned words to the gathered High Lords more than anything, her plea.

He remembered yearning to be able to speak so eloquently about what he was passionate about. Nesta had beseeched them all to set aside their enmities and historic feuds and unite, to protect Prythian, to stand up for the vulnerable. Tamlin had been awed by her passion, by her eloquence.

He had thought her as cold and as beautiful as a spring dawn glittering with silver frost.

A different woman sat opposite him now and his concern smouldered lazily like embers ready to ignite. What had happened to her in the Night Court that this was what she had become since the summit?

The same choking terror he had felt for Feyre – which he had forced himself to let go of or lose himself completely to it – surged through his body, making him alert and aware for the first time in months, analysing and assessing everything about Nesta's appearance, her scent, to give him some clue about what she either could not or would not communicate willingly to him.

Dark bruises smudged beneath dull grey-blue eyes, evidence of an exhaustion he felt in his marrow. Her cheekbones were more pronounced, and he noted that she had lost considerable weight since that summit in Dawn. He frowned and thought back to that meeting, recalling the modest gowns she had worn – in defiance of traditional Night Court attire, which favoured flash over style, designed to shock and distract the senses – and which had done nothing to hide the voluptuous curve of her high, heavy breasts or her generous backside.

She had stood out amongst everyone gathered there, superbly elegant in a way that could only be admired, never imitated.

And he had admired her – a human who had been created into something entirely new, and entirely against her will. What Hybern had done to the Archeron sisters would always haunt him: it was not the deal they had made. The girls should have remained untouched, safe with him in Spring. In that heartbeat, watching Nesta and Elain being dragged before them, he had known he had to adjust all his plans. Yet in spite of what she had endured, Nesta had stood there in Thesan's untouched palace, a human-turned-Fae, uneducated in their ways or customs, their histories, powerless in comparison to ancient, experienced High Lords…and shamed them. He had enjoyed that, though his heart had ached.

She allied with them.

Of course she would: she was Feyre's sister. It was a shame, though – the waste. All that potential, thrown away on Rhysand, who would hoard and covet and control to his heart's content.

He frowned and watched Nesta, who scowled warily at the flames. She hadn't spoken, not as he built the fire in the courtyard of the barracks, not even flinching as he had skinned and prepared the deer for hanging, carving off two steaks. Now, he heard her stomach rumble incessantly as the scent of venison perfumed the air, rich and decadent. His mouth watered, fangs aching, and he sighed.

"If you've come to kill me, you needn't waste your time trying to catch me off-guard," he sighed finally. Across the fire, Nesta stirred, as if she had forgotten he was there. He was sprawled out in a bench perfect for idling away the afternoon hours in the sunshine, legs stretched out before him, the image of a relaxed male. He wasn't relaxed, though, and he wondered if Nesta could scent his unease. If she had yet mastered her new senses. She looked…very like her sister, though somehow…more. She was all that Feyre had been and yet was so much more.

More beautiful, more intense.

Her eyes were more grey than blue and shone like silver smoke in the firelight, as if some part of her – the part of her that was connected so intimately with the Cauldron's dreadful, unknowable power – was awoken by the flame's gentle lullaby. She had her soft caramel-brown hair drawn up yet it was tousled, as if from a great wind, and she had been biting her plump lower-lip until tiny marks appeared. He sighed and gazed at her. The Nesta who had kept the High Lords ensnared in her fierce silver gaze was…rumpled. In a way he doubted she had ever allowed herself to be seen by others. She had pretty eyebrows, an elegant nose, eyelashes that tilted upward naturally at the outer corners…but her lips… They were beautiful. Expressive in a way her eyes weren't: those silver mirrors concealed more than they showed.

"Perhaps I desire a meal before I attempt it," Nesta murmured, and Tamlin's lips twitched, a flicker of amusement warming him from the inside. Teasing. From her?

He sprawled in his seat, lazily spreading his arms wide, his chest utterly exposed. If she so chose, she could plunge a knife into his heart – or tear out his throat with her dainty little fangs. "I promise I shall not fight you. You look like you'd need every advantage."

Those pretty eyebrows drew together as she frowned. His lips twitched and Tamlin realised he enjoyed baiting her. Almost as much as he enjoyed her teasing him. It was fleeting, though: the crushing weight he was so familiar with pressed on him again, harder, realising that it was the first time he had felt even a spark of delight or genuine joy in…far too long.

Nesta's pretty, bruised lips twitched. Her eyes glinted as she said, "Perhaps you could instruct me in the best way to go about it, to save us both the aggravation."

"I'll do my utmost to be a cooperative murder-victim," Tamlin promised her. A smile shone from his eyes and Nesta stared at the male across the flames.

Truly, she had had no thought in her head when she had left the Night Court. Only that she wanted to be as far away from her sisters and their new…family as possible. She had yearned to find someone as betrayed and brutalised by them as she was.

Whatever strange magic flowed through her veins had known it, and brought her here. She had found herself in the Spring Court, watching the High Lord of Spring slay a true monster.

The only person in the world still living who had endured as much abuse from Feyre and her family as Nesta had. More, she acknowledged. The lands all about them had been quiet – blissfully tranquil – yet they should have been teeming with servants tending to the staggeringly beautiful gardens.

If she had thought about appearing in the Spring Court, she wondered what she might have expected. Not this. Not the High Lord, quiet and gentle and sad as he waited patiently for the venison steaks to cook, teasing her. His smile – the first she had ever seen from him since that vicious, horrifying expression he had given them all the moment he arrived at Thesan's palace – was playful, almost sweet, and touched with an agonising sadness she could feel. His lips, almost too beautiful for a man, twitched and his smile seemed to wink from the corners of those lips, rather than his vivid eyes, which remained…defeated.

Tamlin didn't particularly wish to die, he just…didn't think he'd be all that upset if he was killed. He would worry about the fate of his Court but beyond that… He certainly wouldn't fight Nesta if it came to that. He remembered her screams of fury echoing throughout Hybern's hall as they forced her to the Cauldron…a shiver of something close to ecstasy went up and down his spine as he remembered the primordial wrath that had emanated from her when she finally emerged, horrifying and glorious – an innocent victim who had transformed herself into the thing that monsters feared, and knew it. That primal, feral Fae who had emerged from the Cauldron had been awe-inspiring: Tamlin remembered his heart stopping as he beheld her, silver-eyed in her sodden dress, promising death.

Like him, she had killed the one who had hunted and tormented her.

And perhaps like him, she felt just as empty. It hadn't changed anything. The past was still the past. There was no rewriting it. No escaping it.

"If not to bring about the moment of my tragic demise," Tamlin said, and Nesta's eyes glinted, "are you going to tell me why you came here?"

For a long time, Nesta did not answer, and he wondered whether she was actively ignoring him. Why was she here? This mistress of death – had Rhysand sent her to do his dirty-work, his new agent of destruction? How Rhysand could have believed Feyre's antics would keep him down for long, Tamlin didn't know. Perhaps his spymaster kept him criminally uninformed about the true workings of the Spring Court if he had believed Feyre's manipulations would have any lingering effects… Perhaps he had sent Nesta in the hopes she would do a more thorough job of it.

Perhaps word had somehow reached the Night Court of Spring's enduring strength. It was quiet, and subtle, but the only kind of strength that endured was the careful, patient kind. Strength built on mutual respect and trust. Fear was all the other High Lords had. It was all Rhysand had. And that fear made their power brittle: everyone beneath them longed to see them dead.

Tamlin knew that all too well – he remembered that fear. And the relief.

He had vowed never to rule through fear. When he had become High Lord, he had still been part of his father's army and in denial about showing the signs of inheriting his father's power. So he had turned to those he knew and trusted best. Word had spread from them. He had nurtured close bonds with his people, from the lowliest kobolds and brownies to the loveliest succubae, the bashful sylphs and the nixies, the spriggans and the deadliest bruxa, the undine and the kushtaka, the valkyr and the echidnae, the lamiae, the satyrs and fauns, the shifters, the naiads and the nymphs and all the Fae in between. His strength had always come from his people.

And no matter what, they knew he would always be the shield that protected them. It didn't matter to him what anyone outside his lands thought of him; his people knew him, and knew the truth. He didn't care about anything else but that: their respect, their love, their abiding faith in his ability to protect them from anything.

How else could he have so swiftly regained control over his lands?

The actions of one ignorant youth were nowhere near enough to destabilise his entire court…but it had provided him an advantage. To let everyone believe Spring was utterly vulnerable.

Perceived weakness had a unique power: it revealed everyone for who they were.

It was one of the first things he had learned in the war-band, when he had finally stepped out of his father's direct control and learned valuable lessons about life and strategy.

Give a little to gain a lot. If it meant taking a blow to see the enemy's true strength when they became overconfident and made their play, he would take the hit gladly.

He thought back to Rhysand's last visit, that Solstice morning.

Solstice had come after a breaking-point for Tamlin, suffering from months of incessant night-terrors and waking hours that were more horrific than any dreams, the slightest thing setting him off, sending him back to the Mountain… He had been at his lowest, and had made no effort to conceal it from Rhysand: yet in leaving himself vulnerable, he had been allowed a rare glimpse into how Rhysand treated those he believed were lesser than him. How Rhysand treated the vulnerable, the powerless – the ones he had nothing to gain from. Either ignored or vilified. He had verbally flayed Tamlin alive – especially when Tamlin had refused to engage, to let Rhysand play his favourite game, verbally sparring, winding Tamlin up… No, Tamlin had refused to engage: and Rhysand had lashed out viciously.

Before everything that had happened in Hybern, Tamlin had been waiting patiently for Hybern to show their hand, to invade in full force… All his plans, laid to waste by one vengeful little – He scowled, stopping his thoughts. It wasn't all her fault. They had both come out of the Mountain broken. She had been…altered. He still wasn't entirely convinced she had left the Spring Court of her own volition…that every action she made wasn't controlled by Rhysand's strange power, that she hadn't been in thrall to Rhysand from the moment they had made their deal under the Mountain… To allow himself to care about Feyre, to let the agitation and terror gnaw at him from the inside, was just another weapon Rhysand had to wield against him.

Tamlin had made the decision never to allow Rhysand to have such power over him ever again. Especially since his attack at Solstice. He had let Rhysand rage and spew venom and let it all wash over him. What did he know? Tamlin's greatest defence against Rhysand was to ignore him: Rhysand thrived on confrontation, on lashing out with his words, hitting the most tender wounds with relish. The only way to render him powerless was to refuse to engage. He thanked Nathyrha for her insight, glad that at long last the Triumvar could congregate, to advise him and share their concerns, build plans for the future.

But it was difficult to ignore Rhysand's words. Especially with Nesta sat there, looking so like her sister. So like the Feyre who had emerged from the Mountain, altered, wasting away, plagued by nightmares…refusing to talk to him about them, unable or unwilling to see that he suffered his own too.

No matter how much Tamlin had wished to, he hadn't known how to look after her. They hadn't known how to take care of each other.

He waited for the blow to come from Nesta. But it never did. He could see Nesta's mind working furiously as she frowned into the flames, her silver eyes sharpening with focus and intensity.

Eventually, her voice filled with emotion, she whispered, "I have nowhere else to go."

Her eyes glinted with that furious intensity and Tamlin watched her carefully, his instincts whispering to be cautious. Whatever Nesta was – whatever the Cauldron had Made her – she was…other. In a way he had never experienced. Silver flames erupted from the glint in those grey-blue eyes and his eyes flicked to the elegant fingers she had curled into fists at her sides: his nose twitched as a whisper of something tangy tickled it – the scent of scorched air after a lightning storm. The scent of her power overwhelming the rich, decadent scent of fig, camellia and vanilla of her.

He opened his mouth to ask – "What happened?" "Why did you leave the Night Court?" He looked at Nesta, really looked at her, and sighed heavily. The crumpled clothing with a whisper of scent belonging to a male, the shadows under her eyes, the slight inward curve of her shoulders, her slenderness, her unkempt hair, the wild, lost look in those grey-blue eyes as she hatefully watched the logs in the fire. He remembered her proud and unyielding. Whatever she had gone through, he doubted she would share unless she wished to. And he was the last person to force the issue.

All he could ask, very quietly, was, "Are you safe?"

Her breathing grew sharper and shallower: her eyes widened and turned glassy, lost in memory. After a long moment, they refocused on him. Her answer was barely above a whisper, and sounded as if it had been torn from her. "No."

He waited for the words. The words every Fae child learned, and every adult dreaded having to rely on. To utter them meant they had lost everything. That they were at the mercy of those they had fled and those from whom they sought protection. They were words of hope and fear in perfect balance.

Tamlin waited, but they did not come.

Even Lucien, battered and bloodless, his guts spilling out, had managed to gasp them out on a bloody breath as Tamlin tore apart his brothers. But then, he knew what he had needed to say. What he could claim from Tamlin as High Lord… What he had thrown back in Tamlin's face.

When the words did not come, Tamlin sighed heavily. She didn't know. He frowned and stood. Nesta watched him go, eyes darting in the darkness, drawn again and again to the fire as it snapped and crackled, mocking her.

He hadn't asked her why she had left, or what had happened to her. Hadn't pushed her, or demanded information from her. She had watched him: he had chosen his words very carefully. Are you safe?

No, she wasn't: she hadn't been for a very long time. She couldn't actually remember the last time she had felt safe. Childhood, perhaps. Before Father's misfortune, before Mama's death. The nursery had been safe, with her dollhouse and her paints and piano and the heavy satin eiderdown she used to curl up under during storms, with the golden glow of lamplight caressing Mama's ornate hairstyles as she bent to smooth Nesta's hair from her face, kiss her brow, and sing her a lullaby before she departed for a ball or a party, resplendent in her pearls and silks, the heroine of every story in Nesta's books, fearsome and elegant.

"Look after them…"

Nesta flinched and started when Tamlin reappeared. How long had he been gone? He frowned gently as he approached, watching her. Could he hear her heart stuttering? It had been a long time since she thought of Mama – of her agonising death, of the promise she had extracted from Nesta mere hours before she left them.

Her mouth dry, she swallowed and glanced at the High Lord as he approached.

"Here," he said quietly, and Nesta blinked as he offered her a wooden trencher. A small roll covered in seeds and a little pile of coarse salt flakes were arranged on it. She frowned from the trencher to Tamlin and reached uncertainly for the roll. He cleared his throat. "With this guest-right, I vow to provide you with all that my lands have to offer, be it from the seeds of the earth or the salt of the sea."

Nesta's lips parted. The roll felt heavy in her palm but she could not look away from Tamlin. He said the words gruffly and with unnerving sincerity. And even she, who knew so little of Fae culture, could feel the ancient power of those words.

He cleared his throat again and offered her the trencher. "If you'd… If you'd like, you could dip the torn bread into the salt and eat it," he said, flicking his green eyes to hers.

"What is guest-right?" she asked tentatively.

Tamlin raised those green eyes. He seemed angered by the question. "They didn't teach you," he said, then scowled. Almost to himself, he muttered, "Of course they wouldn't. Not when they had every intention of keeping you." She didn't need to ask who he meant. She found her cheeks flushing with an anger that answered his.

"They didn't teach me anything," she said sharply, "except that their word counts for very little."

He scowled at that. "Any Fae may request sanctuary from a High Lord. You need but say the word sanctuary and protection may be granted…where communication fails, guest-right may be offered. A High Lord may offer guest-right to anyone who enters their lands. It amounts to the same thing: you will have my protection for as long as you desire it. From anyone."

Nesta paused and stared into Tamlin's vivid green eyes: they had darkened with his solemnity. She weighed the seeded roll in her hand and bit her lip, frowning.

"I didn't come here to put you between myself and Rhysand," she said sharply, feeling her cheeks warming again, this time with faint embarrassment. She needed no protector. She had learned long ago that no-one could be relied upon to protect her: she must do it herself, and she was embarrassed to have handed over the responsibility to Cassian so readily. And she was angry still that he had failed her – that she had failed herself in allowing another to have that power over her once again.

"It doesn't matter to me why you're here, just that you are. Just know that if you ever want it, you have my protection," Tamlin said gruffly. His eyes lightened, a twinkle in them, and his lips twitched toward a smile. He said richly, "I don't imagine you've ever let anyone fight your battles for you."

Nesta gazed back at him, at the warmth and…something else shining from his face, his eyes, as he stared at her. Admiration, perhaps, or appreciation. She cleared her throat and said, "You're very discerning."

Tamlin sighed heavily, stabbing his hunting-knife into the venison steaks to hook them off the skillet hissing in the embers of the fire. He grunted, "I have to be able to see the truth through all the shit."

Nesta asked quietly, "How do you get on with that?"

Tamlin sighed heavily, letting the steaks rest on a wooden trencher. He watched her carefully, frowning. After several long moments, he answered her, "Lately, I have struggled. My instincts… I ignored my instincts when I should not. I won't make that mistake again."

"Which mistake in particular are you referring to?" Nesta asked coolly. Tamlin smiled to himself, watching the fire. She sounded more like the Nesta he had admired in Thesan's palace. But she had edged away from the fire again, and he watched her out of the corner of his eye.

"Convincing myself that my love was indebted where it did not exist," he said quietly, his eyes simmering like green flame, and he was impressed when Nesta did not balk, did not break eye-contact. No, she drew her shoulders back ever so slightly, raising her chin. Her eyes glowed softly silver in the firelight. A log broke apart and cracked loudly: Nesta flinched, as she had done when he returned from the pantry with the salt and the last of the seeded rolls he had made a few days ago. Her heart leapt, her blood rushing through her veins, and he listened to the thundering of her heart as she turned pale. He eyed the fire. It wasn't the flames that unnerved her: it was the sound of the logs cracking. Why?

He watched her clench her fist once before she reached out, fingers shaking subtly, to tear the seeded roll in half. She sprinkled some salt on it and raised her eyes to his as she took a bite. Something in his chest eased as he watched her chew, something catching alight in him at the defiance in her eyes. She had accepted guest-right: she was now under his protection.

Whatever she had run from, he would not allow it to chase her here.

Please.

Please what?

Don't tell Amarantha about her.

And why not? As her whore I should tell her everything.

Please.

Beg, and I'll consider not telling Amarantha… Lower…

He knew Rhysand's cruelty all too well. He had enjoyed making Tamlin beg: he had likely enjoyed whispering every detail to Amarantha, pointing her toward an innocent human to be butchered.

A memory surfaced, of wheat-blonde hair drenched crimson with blood, fragile eyes as green as new buds open and glassy – he gritted his teeth and tamped the memory down, blocking it, as he tasted copper and bile. He closed his eyes and inhaled a few steady breaths – the venison, Nesta, the seeded roll and salt, the camellias and water hyacinths and the night-blooming flowers, the hint of rain and lightning tingling in the air – and willed himself to calm, letting his last breath out slowly, counting.

"What about you?" he prompted, curious, and gazed at Nesta. She glanced at him, eyeing the steaks as he leaned forward to cut them into strips, easier for them to eat with their fingers. "Have you ignored your better judgement?"

"Not ignored," Nesta said quietly. He saw a muscle tick in her jaw, just faintly, but he wondered if that was a tell. She exhaled sharply from her nostrils and hooked a sliver of steak between her thumb and forefinger. She tilted her head back slightly and dropped the steak into her mouth, licking the juices from her fingertips. She eyed Tamlin shrewdly, her brows drawing together, angry – but not at him. "It was invalidated."

"I can imagine by whom," Tamlin grunted, his lip curling, and Nesta gave him an imperious look that would have ruined a lesser male. His lips twitched instead. He asked, "When?"

Nesta sighed, raising those silvery eyes to his. She paused, fishing for another sliver of steak, and licked her lips daintily as she chewed. "When they demanded I act as emissary to the human queens, I refused. I worried for my safety: I knew we would be targeted as soon as it became known that we were connected. They looked down their noses when I told them my fears. When they couldn't bully, they belittled. Promises were made in an attempt to placate me, manipulate me."

"Promises only mean something when you trust the person to honour them," Tamlin muttered. He had known, even as he went to his knees before Rhysand, that begging would make no difference. He had packed Feyre off to the human lands as quickly as he was able – after days arguing with Lucien.

What is there to be gained by sending her away?

Only an innocent life, Lucien.

Lucien had known it, too. He had advocated for the people of the Spring Court – as Tamlin had asked him to – yet even his silver tongue failed because he knew that he could no sooner allow Amarantha anywhere near Feyre than Tamlin could. They both knew the fate that had awaited her if Feyre had dared succeed in breaking the curse.

Tamlin would be freed: but Amarantha would never have let the human live. Not after Tamlin had humiliated her before all of Prythian – for a second time.

The guilt of manipulating the human for his freedom, at the cost of her life, would have tormented Tamlin forever: that would have been Amarantha's greatest revenge.

Tamlin sighed. "Why didn't you tell them where to shove it?"

"I didn't trust anyone else to do the job properly," Nesta said. "So I took on the burden – and all of the risk." She sighed and her shoulders slumped a little. "We were marked the moment I reached out to the queens." She raised those grey-blue eyes to Tamlin's face.

"Long before that," Tamlin muttered darkly, and Nesta swept her eyes over his face. A slight frown betrayed her curiosity. "Ianthe spent months wheedling information out of your sister: she hoarded knowledge and betrayed it to Hybern, preparing to overthrow the High Lords. You may have only ever been collateral damage, but when I…when I approached Hybern, you became strategic… I ignored my instincts about Ianthe and you paid for it."

"You were not responsible for her actions," Nesta sighed softly.

"She was a member of my Court."

"Don't priestesses answer to a power higher even than you?"

"True, devout priestesses do," Tamlin sighed. He gave her a sour smile. "They are becoming few and far between… Ianthe answered to her own ambition. The only comfort I find in that is that she was as easily manipulated by Hybern because of her ambition as I was by her."

"Were you manipulated?" Nesta asked coolly.

Tamlin raised his eyes to her face, searching those beautiful, tired features. "Yes," he said quietly. "She knew exactly how to work my terror into a weapon of my own undoing… My fear overwhelmed everything else. I have always been afraid."

He started, not realising what he had said until the words hung heavily between them. I have always been afraid.

Fear was the first thing he could remember.

His father and brothers returning from the war: he could still taste his mother's dread at the sound of the baleful horns in the dusk, how her heart tripped at the sound of the horse's hooves clattering in the marble courtyard, how her hands grew clammy as she clutched his and gave him a tremulous smile as a booming voice echoed off the walls, filled with seething anger, her gentle green eyes shattering with grief as she gazed down at him. He hadn't known it then, but years later he had realised she knew exactly what was to come, for the both of them, and that there was no hiding from it, no fleeing…no way to fight it. No escape for her from his father.

He had learned very quickly what that meant.

And he had learned there would be no escape from his brothers. He had been so excited to meet them.

Tamlin had been afraid every day of his life.

Nesta gazed back at him, her eyes glowing like slumbering silver dragons. She said gently, "When you're afraid is the only time you can be brave… You were brave."

"When?" he asked, his voice barely more than a wheeze. He forced memories of his mother away, focusing on sucking down a breath.

"In Hybern," Nesta murmured, her lips barely moving. He froze, watching her.

This is not part of our deal. Stop this now.

I don't care.

She remembered the bored, hateful tone of the ruddy-faced Fae who haunted her dreams. She remembered this male launching himself at the King, glorious and golden and tremendous in his wrath. She remembered the blinding white light – power – hurled at him, throwing him back. She remembered the collar of blinding power, the manacles around his wrists and ankles, his green eyes seething with hatred as a bolt of that power forced itself between his teeth, gagging him. She remembered him fighting – she remembered… She remembered Tamlin and Lucien demanding that the King stop. And when their words had failed, they had tried their hardest to act, until their own power was overwhelmed, thrashing against magical bonds – bonds Lucien had somehow broken.

He had moved, not to slay the King, but to protect Elain.

In that moment, furious and grief-stricken as Nesta was, she had known deep down in some core part of her that Lucien was one of the good ones. His instinct was to protect; and he had risked everything to protect the most vulnerable person there.

They were the only ones…

Feyre blamed Tamlin for what had happened to her, to Elain. She blamed Tamlin for everything, of course, but the Cauldron… She imagined Tamlin had wrapped Nesta and Elain in pretty ribbons and bequeathed them to the King.

But it was not Tamlin who had betrayed them.

If anything, Feyre's naïveté had been their doom. She had provided that priestess with all the information she needed.

Then she had appeared at the door, her smile that of a crocodile. The next thing Nesta knew, they were across the sea, bound and gagged and being hauled into a sweeping chamber packed with Fae and those two-faced human queens. She remembered many things about that night. The details chose their moments, whispering through her mind and staining her dreams, or appearing like a mirage in her waking hours, causing her breath to catch in her throat, her heart stopping as dread chilled her blood.

Oddly, some memories of that night calmed her when the others threatened to choke her. She remembered Tamlin's horror as she and Elain were shoved into the hall, his wrath when he realised what was about to happen – and how he and Lucien had fought…while Rhysand petted a weeping, vomiting Feyre at the edge of a pool of Cassian's blood, Azriel pierced with arrows of ash nearby.

For allegedly unbeatable warriors infamous for their strength and cunning, Nesta had expected…more. She had expected a decent fight. She had expected…she had expected their promises to be kept. To at least…try.

But they had weighed her and Elain's lives against their own: Nesta and Elain had been found wanting.

But Tamlin and Lucien…

They had made no promises to Nesta: yet they had fought as viciously as they could, against an enemy they had no hope of defeating, trying to stop the very worst from happening to them, to her and Elain – people they had never met, had likely only ever heard the worst of, the way Feyre had poured poison into the ears of her new family about them before they had even met.

Small wonder they had not fought for Nesta or Elain: they had already written them off as disposable at best, deserving of any horrific fate at worst.

Nesta sighed softly, watching Tamlin as they silently shared the venison. It was juicy and rich, cooked to perfection – rare in the centre with delicate caramelisation at the edges, velvety smooth.

"What's wrong?" Tamlin asked quietly, as the firelight simmered low.

Nesta frowned. "I'm trying to remember the last time… I'm trying to remember what I last ate."

"I thought you were the one who knew how to cook," Tamlin said quietly, and she arched an eyebrow, surprised he knew even that much – that Feyre had acknowledged that Nesta did even that much in their old home.

"Cooking for yourself is not the same."

"I thought…" Tamlin frowned at her. "Why were you by yourself, Nesta?"

She watched the logs, now blackened coals simmering angrily in the heart of the fire, and felt her eyes burn. "I couldn't stand the sight of them," she admitted on a hoarse whisper. "Couldn't… I couldn't abide their happiness when I told them I was struggling…and they ignored me. It was not my home; they were not my people. So I left… No-one noticed."

That hurt the most. Now that Rhysand provided everything – food, clothes, maids – they had no need of Nesta. Would not miss her because someone else was already doing the work that would be left without her to do it, she realised with dawning horror mingled with a humiliating sort of grief.

"My place in my sisters' lives was filled by a maid," she said hoarsely, glaring viciously at the fire as pain ripped through her chest, a gaping, sucking wound. She flicked her gaze to Tamlin's face. He looked as miserable and hurt as she felt. "What does what say about me?"

"It says more about your sisters," he said gently. Her eyes and nostrils burned threateningly and she bit her lip rather than betray the quiver of it. Forcing her expression to harden, she sniffed and reached up to smooth her hair, realising how unkempt she must look. She hadn't cared until now: for some reason, she didn't feel the need to be on her guard around Tamlin.

Possibly because he looked as battered as she felt. As exhausted – as defeated.

She gazed at him across the dying flames and wondered…

How much of what Feyre had shared had been the truth? How much had she embellished to paint herself in a better light?

That was Feyre: any way to make herself look more tragic, more heroic, at the expense of everyone else. First Father and Mama, then her dreadful sisters, now Tamlin… There was a theme: Feyre was always the poor little victim.

Feyre's bias toward Tamlin was horrendous, almost as bad as Rhysand and his pawns, yet Nesta had sat with her after Tamlin had sent Feyre away from his lands all those years ago. He had sent her away rather than secure his own freedom – his Court's freedom.

Nesta also remembered what Feyre had said about Rhysand, his visits and gifts left in the Spring Court – severed heads; gleeful taunts about torture; threatening to shatter Feyre's mind; public humiliation. She could already hear Feyre's excuses now, backtracking, excusing his past – "Oh, but you know it's only an act that he must keep up. He had to do it…"

Nesta remembered the day Feyre had appeared at their new manor-house, bedecked in jewels like an empress, altered, and trailing a host of Fae behind her – including the very same male who had physically and mentally attacked her – expecting her sisters to fawn over them and beg their forgiveness and bow and scrape to follow their orders as if they should be grateful to be given them. She had told the story of Under the Mountain – and it had sounded very much like a story, the way Feyre could so easily go into detail about things Nesta didn't care about yet glossed over the few pointed questions Nesta had asked which dared to contradict what Feyre was saying about her new friends. Everything, Nesta remembered, painted Rhysand in a glorious light while Tamlin was painted as a villain.

She had told them about after the Mountain. Yet, and gazing at Tamlin now, Nesta realised it with even more clarity, Feyre had only ever told them what had been done to her. She had taken no accountability for anything, given no perspective on circumstances, what had led up to those crucial moments, her own actions – or inaction – that may have contributed. Absolving herself of any accountability was accurate to her sister's character, Nesta was ashamed to say.

Now, Nesta couldn't help wonder… What had led to those moments that had given the Night Court the first excuse they needed to sweep Feyre away to their hidden city, to utilise her latent, unexplored – unexplainable – powers to get what they wanted, playing on her ignorance, stoking her hatred for Tamlin because it suited their agenda. All in the name of "freeing" her.

Nesta had her own thoughts about her sister's…union. It did no good to share them with anyone, least of all Feyre.

But Nesta had learned from brutal personal experience that Rhysand's words did not match his actions. Not by a long shot. And if he could not be trusted to be a man of his word…then his word meant nothing.

It was an uncomfortable thought, sitting across the dying fire from the High Lord of Spring, and realising that all she knew of him had come from Feyre. From an inexperienced girl who had cast him off to pursue someone better. More powerful – more inclined to giving Feyre everything she demanded, everything she believed she was entitled to, as long as he ultimately got what he wanted from her.

All Nesta knew personally about Tamlin was this: that he had forfeited thousands of lives to protect Feyre. He had provided wealth beyond their dreams to keep Nesta and her family comfortable for the rest of their lives – and their children's and grandchildren's. He had fought Hybern when the lives of two innocent strangers had been threatened, when all they knew was soon to be ripped from them. He had forfeited his safety when he provided a diversion to help Feyre and Azriel free Elain from Hybern's camp. He had taken Beron by the throat, forcing him into the conflict to protect Prythian, commandeering his armies to fight for their freedom. He had yielded part of his essence, his power, to a person he feared and despised above all others, to bring Rhysand back from the dead.

Meanwhile, Rhysand had put her family in direct danger by demanding they liaise with the human queens, ignoring Nesta's qualms. He had made empty promises about protection. He had stood by while his sisters – by bond if not by blood – were forced into the Cauldron against their wills. He, the "most powerful High Lord ever"…had stood by and watched – not even that, she recalled, fury lashing through her: he had petted Feyre's hair while she wept, as if she was being tortured, as if her life as she knew it was about to be brutally stripped from her. He continued to condone the brutal torture and rape of Illyrian females through his inaction, afraid that the status quo being altered in any way would threaten his grip on the Illyrian armies: and he nurtured an environment of toxicity, of violence and evil in the Hewn City, rather than endangering his own hold over the Court of Nightmares by enacting any real change that might bring the rest of the Night Court into an enlightened age.

Rhysand talked a lot about the world he wanted to create. He never seemed to get round to actually doing it.

Nesta gazed at Tamlin and wondered… Where words failed, actions proved far more powerful. She wondered whether Tamlin was a High Lord of action rather than words.

"What's that look on your face?" Tamlin grunted, frowning at her as if unnerved. Nesta realised she had been frowning at him.

"I was just thinking that I might…like to know you."

"Why?"

She laughed. He looked shocked, and Nesta blushed. It had been a long time since she had laughed. The look on his face was too precious…and devastating. To wonder why someone might like to know them? As if such a thing had never occurred to him. Or as if he'd been told one too many times that he was unworthy of being liked or even known…

"I believe in actions, not words," Nesta said carefully, frowning inscrutably at Tamlin. She sighed. "I've been weighing your actions versus Rhysand's."

"Oh? Is there a tally?" Tamlin asked, as if he did not particularly care to continue the conversation.

"Yes," Nesta said. She frowned and admitted gently, "I've just realised that you come out on top."

Tamlin scoffed, but his eyes glinted. He murmured, "You'd be the only one who thinks that."

"That's sad," Nesta said.

Tamlin glanced at her and conceded, "Perhaps not the only one."

"You mean the people outside this Court," Nesta said, and he sighed heavily. "The other High Lords and their chosen ones."

"Chosen ones indeed," he said coldly. "Sycophants." Nesta glanced sharply at Tamlin: she recognised the venom with which he had said that one word, felt it in her soul – it matched her own hatred for those 'fair-weather friends' who flitted back and forth like butterflies depending on which way the wind blew – depending on how wealthy one was, and just how much one could do for them, whether it was providing gold or connections or protection and influence.

"I would rather have one good friend than a score of followers," Nesta murmured, and Tamlin grunted softly in agreement.

"I'd just rather have one good friend," he muttered, and Nesta gazed at him. He was watching the dying embers, his eyelashes casting shadows over his high cheekbones. Yes, she would have liked one good friend.

"What about Lucien?" she asked hesitantly. Tension stole through Tamlin.

"I should find you somewhere to sleep," he said gruffly, climbing to his feet. She noticed the darkness then, and the chill. An orb of faelight appeared, hovering above Tamlin's head – gilding his beautiful golden hair – and Nesta swallowed as she stood up, dusting off the seat of her stolen trousers. Tamlin had brought them to what looked like the barracks behind his palace, with its own training yard and stables – enough lodgings for hundreds of soldiers. But they were empty, the doors barred or hanging off their hinges. Nesta followed, still unnerved that her eyesight was strong enough to be able to see by moonlight. She had to control her breathing and slow her heart as her senses threatened to overwhelm her – it was always harder at night to control the prickling sensation of being watched, because she was now so much more aware of everything around her. And being more aware of her environment, she was more wary of everything. More afraid of what she did not understand. And had no-one to ask.

Any trust she had been building with Rhysand's people had been shattered long ago. The moment she was dunked into the Cauldron, if she was being honest. When they had failed her. When they had stood by and watched. Despite a tenuous peace between them for the sake of the war, any last kernels of her trust in them had died in the conflict. She certainly would never give her trust again, especially not after today.

She focused on Tamlin's hair, shining brightly ahead of her, and on finding her path up some gored marble steps to an entryway that seemed to swallow the darkness. Tamlin's faelight…illuminated a dwelling that would not have been out of place as the setting of a horror in the theatre. Dust and debris, ripped paintings, shattered furniture.

"Was this you?" she breathed, stunned. She had heard he had a temper, but…

"Some of it," Tamlin said, shrugging his enormous shoulders. "I wrecked what little Hybern left intact. He claimed this place as his centre of command. His lieutenants enjoyed plundering before they marched."

They walked through long corridors and wide halls with soaring ceilings and grand windows – all shattered. Everywhere, the gardens seemed to be encroaching: climbers had sought their way inside, tapestries of honeysuckle and spray-roses, clematis and a rare hydrangea creeper. Thankfully, there was no jasmine. She didn't think she could abide the scent of it ever again, not since being imprisoned in that wind-blasted moonstone palace with nothing but an infinite drop and her empty husk of a sister for company.

"Why haven't you repaired it?"

"I've no love for this place," Tamlin said grimly.

Nesta frowned in the dark, following him. "But you saved the gardens." If the palace was trashed, the gardens had likely been uprooted. Yet Nesta had traipsed through them, absolutely awed by their beauty, and a very strong part of her had yearned to explore the gardens she had barely glimpsed – rhododendrons and gardenias towering over redbrick walls; statues gleaming white amid oceans of green; the sound of bubbling fountains lulling her. She wondered how many gardens there were, how extensive Tamlin's private lands were, whether they were all as beautiful as what she had seen today.

Tamlin paused, and she skirted around a giant urn, shattered into jagged pieces on a handwoven carpet she might have seen hanging in the window of an eye-wateringly expensive atelier in Velaris.

"I saved the gardens," he said quietly. The faelight bobbed ahead and Nesta followed, horror at the destruction giving way to a deep sadness. Her own little flat had been bare, yes, but it had the same feeling of neglect. Sorrow seemed to ooze from the very walls of this place. Feyre had once gushed about its beauty.

Tamlin led her through what had once been a staggeringly beautiful hall with a mezzanine and soaring ceilings painted with exquisite frescoes, windows high above showing glimpses of the stars, shedding scant moonlight across the chequered granite floor. She glimpsed scorch marks, deep gouges in the stone…and bloodstains. Her breath caught in her throat and she hurried after Tamlin up a sweeping marble staircase lined with torn crimson carpet. He led her down a wide gallery, paintings torn or ripped off the walls, statuettes and vases in pieces across the shining parquet flooring.

It occurred to her that she had been living in the same state of squalor as Tamlin; but here, it was horrifying.

"There may be a bedchamber in serviceable condition," he said dubiously.

Nesta froze. She glanced at Tamlin, her mouth going dry. "You said that this was Hybern's centre of command."

"Yes."

"He – his people slept here?"

"Other things, too."

Her breath came in sharp, painful bursts as she gazed around wildly. She remembered them, laughing and jeering in Hybern, remembered them engaging with Cassian on the battlefield, gutting him – she inhaled sharply, squashing the wave of nausea that threatened to rise.

"Gods," she hissed. "You should burn it to the ground!"

"Feel free," Tamlin grunted. He sighed and frowned at her. "I've been sleeping in the library. You can use the cot."

"What about you?"

"I don't sleep."

"You'll just sit on the floor and watch me all night?"

"No. I will hunt."

Nesta frowned. "What was that thing you killed earlier?"

"A kikimore. Beron likes to send little treats," Tamlin said sourly. "The Autumn Court is lousy with them."

"It seemed…horrific."

"It is a horrific way to die."

"You were under the water."

"It had me pinned," Tamlin said unconcernedly. Nesta frowned at him. He glanced back at her, meeting her gaze with a challenging look.

"You killed it easily."

"Killing monsters is all I'm good for," Tamlin muttered distractedly.

"So how did it get the upper-hand?" Nesta pressed, her eyes narrowing.

"Because I let it," Tamlin shrugged.

"It its belly more susceptible to weapons?"

"No," Tamlin said lightly. Nesta stared at him, trying to figure him out. He had willingly been pinned under the water, as if – as if he hadn't cared one way or another which of them survived.

"Why doesn't Beron exterminate them?" Nesta asked.

"That would defeat the point of having them in his lands," Tamlin said grimly. Nesta arched an eyebrow. Tamlin gave her a bitter smile and said, "Population control."

"Not necessary here: where is everyone?" Nesta asked. "Surely someone can help you tidy this place up?"

"Maintaining this palace is not high on my list of priorities," Tamlin muttered, striding away. The faelight followed: Nesta followed it, shivering as she imagined the jeering faces of Hybern's courtiers peering from the torn paintings, the gaping doorways.

"Oh? What is? Stewing in your own self-pity?" Nesta asked sharply. Tamlin turned sharply: she grunted indelicately as she collided with his chest.

"I don't know what it is you think you know about this Court, or what you've been told by those I purposely keep misinformed," he said, his voice a low growl. Soft but with an undercurrent of threat, as if he was losing his patience – or rather, realising that he should be far more annoyed with her by now than he was. She swallowed, watching as the faelight turned his eyes into emerald flames, gleaming off his golden hair, highlighting the fierce set of his deeply masculine jaw. Something softened in his features, in his voice, and he said wonderingly, "Perhaps you'll learn what others do not deign to see."

A.N.: Ah, communication. The key element missing from Tamlin and Feyre's relationship!