A.N.: Disclaimer – I don't personally believe Nesta is an alcoholic in canon. She suffered zero withdrawal and didn't think about drinking when she was moved to the House of Wind and was okay with others drinking around her. Was she putting herself at risk, more prone to finding herself in potentially dangerous situations she couldn't get herself out of, because she was drinking and taking strangers home? Absolutely. Yet that wasn't a concern to anyone – just the money she spent, and how Rhysand humiliated Feyre over it. Meanwhile Mor goes to Rita's regularly, takes randoms home and spends excessively on booze – but it's okay, because the IC (who have their own toxic coping-mechanisms, like beating the shit out of each other) is there partying with her.
I'm also going to downplay how many lovers Nesta had – the IC made it seem like she had a new partner every night.
Also, I have a lot of plans for Feyre and Rhysand's relationship – even though we won't see their POV for ages. They are trauma bonded and got married during a war: but are they truly right for each other? What happens when they're forced to focus on who they are as a couple out of the context of war?
Nesta's favourite tea is our world's equivalent of Lady Grey.
A House of Flame and Flower
04
Expectations
She woke at dawn having suffered no nightmares.
The first time in months.
Nesta had left the curtains open when she retired to the library, and left one of the sash windows open a few inches, coaxing in both the night-song of the birds and the faintest hints of a crisp breeze to chase away the stuffiness of the library. She woke to the sound of the dawn chorus, sunlight caressing her face like a tender lover, and marvelled at how rested she felt.
Yesterday had been the best day she had had in…years. For the first time since she could remember, Nesta woke content.
Why had she suffered in Velaris so long?
Ignored, unwanted and despised by her family, who relished her mistreatment – who had actively maligned her and encouraged the abuse, excusing it when they couldn't ignore it. Struggling to cope with the overstimulation of the city around her, even the faintest hint of brine or ash catapulting her back to the battlefield, reliving the worst moments of her life. Why had she not left it all behind the moment she recognised she was struggling and no-one cared to notice – or cared to help? Instead, they had flung more abuse at her, blaming her for struggling.
The answer, she frowned to herself, was very simple: she hadn't known she could.
Nesta had not known there was any way out. Had not known there was escape from them.
Since the moment she had flung herself from the Cauldron – no. Further. From the moment Feyre sauntered back to their new manor-house draped with jewels befitting an empress and her obsequious new family in tow, Nesta had been battling ignorance.
She understood and had easily dominated human society the moment she was reintroduced to it at a magnificent ball her father had hosted, as if Mama had never died and their fortunes had never been viciously stripped from them. While others simpered and smirked and made false vows and flirted, Nesta had been brutally honest and fiercely defended her boundaries. And for that, she was appreciated – a breath of fresh air in an otherwise stagnant room cloyed by sweet perfumes. She had taken human society by storm – a lightning storm amongst meticulously-tended ornamental flowers.
The world of the faeries was not one she had even the faintest inkling about, nor did she pretend to. Unlike Feyre, who spouted her mate's opinions as if they were fact, never questioning anything he told her, superbly arrogant in her words, as if everything she said was unequivocal truth. Nesta did not know how the Fae world worked. But the House of Wind had had a vast library with a plethora of works on Fae laws and customs. If they thought she had wasted her time reading romance novels, more fool them: she had spent weeks poring over books about Fae laws, politics, languages, religious customs and cultures – with some smut thrown in to balance out the heavy subject-matter she had ploughed through so diligently. Yet what she had read had been specific to the Night Court, and much of it was irrelevant due to Rhysand's chosen style of ruling – which was to ignore or excuse what made him uncomfortable, torment those who reminded him too much of himself and revel in self-congratulation over the only thing he placed value in, which was invariably his precious City of Starlight.
She knew one thing, though: Amren had lied to her face, thinking to use Nesta's perceived ignorance against her to manipulate her, control her.
They hadn't told her about sanctuary. She had tasted Tamlin's fury when he had learned of her enforced ignorance, and it had bubbled sluggishly in her stomach for hours, burning and vicious, knowing that Feyre's family had withheld something so crucial, so fundamental to faerie culture, to her safety. Guest right.
They had kept her dependent upon them and relished punishing her for it.
But she had left the city she so despised, a place Feyre's family considered their haven yet was a special kind of hell crafted specifically to torment Nesta. She had escaped them. She would no longer tolerate them mistreating her so they could feel superior, keep her so downtrodden she never became a threat. She didn't care who they were: she would not accept their abuse. And she felt lighter than she had in years, knowing that they had underestimated her and that she had reaped the benefits of their staggering arrogance.
The sound of the dawn chorus brought a hint of a smile to her lips as she lay basking in the gentle sunlight and listened. Wrapped in the heavy crocheted blankets and fine linens Tamlin had provided, she dozed gently for a little while longer – the first time since she was a child that she had been allowed to wake up naturally, to luxuriate in the contentedness she so rarely enjoyed.
Slowly, she allowed sleep to drift away, replaced by a gentle awareness of her immediate surroundings. She became aware of Tamlin shivering by the hearth. He had returned in the dead of night, long after she had tucked herself under the heavy blankets, calm and cosy in the quiet of the library, mesmerised by the fire. It remained perpetually lit yet now made no sound.
Somehow, Tamlin had noticed her aversion to the flames, and realised it wasn't the heat or the fire itself but the sound of the snapping, cracking logs that set her heart thrumming in her mouth and her mind spinning to a distant battlefield.
More to the point, he had done something about it. Without her saying anything, without him even having to ask. He had noticed.
After mere hours with her, he had noticed – and acted on his observations.
It was strange to watch the fire, feel its heat, be mesmerised by its beauty yet hear no sound. She was so accustomed to the snap and crackle of the logs that it was almost unnerving. Less unnerving than the thought that a complete stranger had observed and acted to remove something that triggered such a visceral reaction in her, when her own family…her own family had ignored her struggles, made excuses, blamed her for her reactions, failing to – refusing to acknowledge that she was struggling, if they acknowledged her at all.
She had bundled herself up in blankets last night, relishing the grounding weight that kept her from drifting away, and lay mesmerised by the silent flames as they flickered and danced, absolutely touched by Tamlin's thoughtfulness.
When he had returned, his eyes had been shadowed with purple bruises, cheekbones striking in his wan face, and he had seemed startled by her presence when his arrival jostled her from sleep, as if he had forgotten she would be there. She had started to rise from the daybed, aware of the bone-deep exhaustion she could feel coming off him, before he had stopped her and apologised for disturbing her rest.
Nesta had pointed out that she was imposing on him: he refused to take the daybed despite her protests. He claimed to prefer to bed down on blankets near the fire.
Now she frowned at the hearth, which was still flickering with flame. She could feel its heat even reclined on the daybed yet Tamlin lay on his side by the hearth, his enormous body shuddering. As she watched, she noticed his jaw was clenched, his face drawn in a scowl, and his eyes danced behind their lids. He slept restlessly, his hand curled around the hilt of a simple, brutal dagger, his forefinger curled through the loop at the hilt.
She had enjoyed her best rest in years: he slept fitfully, haunted and prepared for attack.
Summoned by the birdsong, and a persistent ache in her stomach she had long ignored, Nesta sighed softly and rose from the daybed, quietly as she could. Tamlin did not stir: she padded over to him, barefoot, and carefully draped her heavy blankets over him. He grumbled in his sleep but she saw the tension in his shoulders melt. Quietly, she left the library, picking her way through the debris to the kitchens.
As it had yesterday, sunlight streamed in through the double-high windows, glinting off the copper pans and the utensils hung neatly along one wall. It warmed the huge oak table and gleamed off the ceramic bowls and enamel tins Nesta had left on the table last night, neatly arranged but within easy reach rather than tucked away in pantries. At dusk last night, finding herself at a loose end, she had come to the kitchen: faelights had flickered warmly into life, as if in greeting, and she had explored the pantries. The sheer range of ingredients was astounding: ingredients she remembered stockpiled in her father's warehouses during his glory days, treasure troves that Mama had liked to take her to explore, to learn about the world and the value of things – and which had been the first things to disappear when their fortune was so brutally stripped from them.
Nesta had learned how to make do with what she had access to, and that was almost always what she could grow herself or acquire through trading her own produce. But things like coal and fabric, leather boots, yarn and medicine had always taken precedent over spices and expensive dried fruits, no matter how much she yearned for them. Nesta had ensured they were never truly destitute – they had been on the uneasy side of comfortable: one wrong thing and everything would collapse – but that was because she had been severe about prioritising their needs over their desires. Slowly, over years, Nesta had built stability for them and fiercely defended it, proud of everything she had accomplished. It hadn't mattered to her that she could not afford expensive spices or silk, not when she had learned to create such delicious meals with the vegetables and herbs she had grown, the eggs she had gathered from hens she had purchased and cared for were so rich, the honey she had taught herself to harvest was prized in the village and her tailoring skills were sought after, when mothers sent their children to her to teach them to read and write and learn arithmetic, trusting her to educate their children rather than the village's only schoolteacher.
She had been brought up to appreciate the value of things – whether it was spices or skills: even at fourteen, she had known what her skills were worth and she had used them as a foundation to rebuild her family, more stable than it had ever been.
The knowledge that she and she alone was responsible for her family's security was a far more heady sensation than the taste of any spice.
But sometimes she had remembered her childhood, and forever associated the scent of spices and the rustle of silk and decadent perfumes with Mama, gliding around Father's colossal warehouses full of extraordinarily beautiful things from the exotic lands of her bedtime stories. Sometimes she remembered the taste of jewelled rice or the aroma of freshly-baked spice cake and her heart ached, missing Mama. Missing the safety and security of childhood, when her life had been beautiful. Her life had been beautiful. Safety and security, Mama, spices, rich food and warmth: they were all intertwined in her memory. Mama had made her life beautiful. Nesta had done all she could with what she had to make her own life as beautiful as she could.
She was proud of all she had accomplished.
She had never truly grasped just how fiercely Feyre had disdained and despised everything she had done, thought it so much less than what she was entitled to, what she believed she deserved. Nesta had never realised that she had allowed her sisters to grow into adults taking everything she had built for them for granted.
That they took her for granted. Somehow, she had raised sisters who were utterly ungrateful.
Last night, she had promised the presence in the stables a hot meal: she had picked as many green vegetables as she could carry, hunted for fresh eggs and made a three-inch thick frittata loaded with sliced new potatoes, fennel, fresh peas, spring onions, goat's cheese and so many fresh herbs that the rich eggs she had used had turned green as the frittata cooked. She had taken a large portion out to the stables and surprised herself by polishing off an equally large slice as she sat in the shade of an arbour of espaliered plums in the dying sunshine, treating herself to plums and a handful of sun-warmed cherries for dessert and enjoying the feeling of fresh grass tickling her bare toes as she meandered about in the dusk, watching butterflies dance about a sprawling buddleia.
It had occurred to her that it was the first day she had enjoyed for years. It was also the first day she had taken care to eat, and savour what she ate. She had enjoyed searching through the raised beds and sampling everything. She hadn't enjoyed food for many months: her drastic weight loss attested to that. She knew she had lost weight, and hated it, yet she struggled too much to do anything about it.
Yesterday, she had been able to cook. From the moment Father had moved them into a new manor-house using the gold and jewels that had appeared out of nowhere, Nesta had had everything stripped from her. Her home, her daily chores, her sense of accomplishment – the sense of security she had so meticulously built for herself, knowing that the cottage and everything they had there was hers, that it was her hard work that maintained everything, reliant on no-one but herself – no debts to anyone. The fragile sense of security she had spent years building had been shattered as Father and Elain embraced the miraculous new wealth: all the while, Nesta had dreaded it. Had they forgotten what happened when that wealth ran out? What she had built was modest but it was theirs – no-one could take it from them. The new fortune… It had taken all that she had built, everything she had accomplished, and left her bereft, bewildered and in absolute terror.
She had ached to return to the cottage, would happily have returned and left Father and Elain to the manor-house…because when it all went wrong, she would be protected. And they would depend on her, as they always had, wondering how things could ever have gone so wrong…
Nesta had missed the cottage. She had missed her chores, her chickens, her beehives and her sewing, her gardening and her baking. She had missed finding new and creative ways to make flavoursome meals that celebrated her skills. She missed…she missed cooking for the people she loved. It was the only way she could tell them she loved them. By feeding them, by making every mouthful as delicious as possible.
It had never been appreciated. She understood that now. Somehow, she had allowed her sisters to come to view her as little more than a maid, blind to the work she put into everything she did, taking it for granted that the work would be done, that the cottage would be cleaned, clothes mended, food set on the table at regular intervals. While Elain went to the village to sit in sewing circles with her friends and Feyre disappeared into the woods for days, determined that they would have meat – for meat meant wealth and they were Archerons and Archerons were entitled to wealth. They were entitled to meat. Nesta doubted that Feyre ever realised she could have been hanged for poaching if she had ever been caught. She never knew that it was fondness for Mama's memory that stopped Lord Velarion from enforcing the law against poaching. But Nesta did. It was Nesta who had written to Lord Velarion to request permission to hunt in his lands – land that had once belonged to Father, and which he had had to sell to pay off debts.
But food… She could remember sharing meals with Mama, who had always gone out of her way to ensure Nesta's favourites made it to the dining-table at least once a week. No matter who had come to their house – Mama's friends or Father's employees, dock-workers or Nesta's childhood friends, Mama had always gone out of her way to ensure they were offered something to eat or drink. It wasn't just a display of wealth. Mama had been generous by nature and had always showed her friendship and love with food, whether it was beautiful iced biscuits with a cup of tea, hearty pasta dishes to keep the workmen going or an elegant side of salmon richly spiced and followed by elaborate pastries to celebrate a friend's birthday, food was Mama's way of showing people she cared.
Nesta showed her love the same way Mama had – through food. But Elain and Feyre couldn't remember Mama to know that. And they didn't appreciate the effort she put into making every meal as flavoursome as it was sustaining. Because they believed they deserved more than what she could give.
They would have nothing more from her.
The fire within her sang as she released something deep inside her, letting loose a twisted, severe coil, knotted and painful, so tense it was a whisper from snapping – she let it go: it dissolved into nothingness as the fire grew, spreading warmth, bringing comfort. With a soft gasp, Nesta's lips twitched toward a smile. She felt lighter. The pain – the tension – had lifted. She hadn't realised just how much she had been in pain, carrying it around so long.
She went to the enormous hearth, turning on one of the ovens, and went to the external door. Beside the enormous door, tucked beneath a weathered bench and coat-hooks, were a dozen or so wicker baskets: she took one and went out into the kitchen-gardens. After exploring the kitchen-gardens all day yesterday and the pantries last night, she had in her mind exactly what she wanted to cook for breakfast, to thank Tamlin for his hospitality.
The silent fire in the hearth was worthy of a feast to show her gratitude.
So she picked stalks of fresh rhubarb, oranges and ripe tomatoes and carried them back to the kitchen. She prepared the rhubarb to poach it in a simple syrup of sugar and orange juice and retrieved pistachios and a nearly-stale loaf of bread from the pantry and what she would have called fresh strachiatella cheese from the larder with slices of back-bacon wrapped in brown paper. She set the leftover frittata on a baking-tray to reheat in the oven, poached the rhubarb in orange syrup and fried slices of bread alongside the bacon and fresh tomatoes. For the presence in the stables, she hard-boiled some eggs, quickly buttering toast before it cooled, cut an orange into segments with strawberries and plums and added some of the deliciously creamy, slightly salty Cheddar and a handful of mixed nuts and seeds to the trencher before carrying it out to the stables. By the time she returned to the kitchen, the frittata was warming in the oven: she served the strachiatella with cooled orange-poached rhubarb, sprinkled with chopped pistachios. She plated the bacon, tomatoes and fried bread with a portion of the leftover frittata. In the butler's pantry, she had found a large breakfast tray, a tea-set, cutlery and bone-china plates – plain but obviously used above-stairs, not by the domestic staff – and made a pot of tea.
Taking care where she walked, Nesta carried the loaded breakfast-tray upstairs to the library. Tamlin slept more soundly now, the tension in his body relieved by the warmth of the blankets. Nesta tiptoed around him and glanced around for somewhere to place the tray. There was Tamlin's working desk, untidy and piled high with books stuffed with notes and crackling scrolls and a large conch shell paperweight pinning down piles of loose paper. There was just enough clear space on the scarred leather surface to write a letter: she wouldn't dare displace what might be a very precise method of organisation only Tamlin could appreciate. Other than the daybed, there were no surviving pieces of furniture: Nesta placed the tray on the floor, close enough to Tamlin that the scent of fried bacon and frittata and brewing tea might coax him gently into waking, and turned to the daybed. The blankets she had draped over Tamlin yet she had left the linen sheets crumpled and twisted on the daybed, cushions squashed. Quietly as she could, she straightened out and folded the sheets neatly and plumped the cushions. She tucked the linens in a neat pile on the floor and lifted the tray onto the daybed.
"Is that bacon?" Tamlin's voice was sleep-rich, a soft rumble carried on a tired sigh. Nesta glanced over as Tamlin sat up, looking confused when the blankets fell in his lap.
"Good morning," Nesta said quietly, reaching for the tea-strainer, and Tamlin rubbed his face, pinching his eyes and climbed off the floor. He staggered unsteadily to the daybed as Nesta poured the fragrant black tea into two plain bone-china cups.
"Morning," Tamlin murmured, squinting blearily at her then at the breakfast tray. "You made all this?"
"The frittata was last night's dinner," Nesta said quietly, tucking into her bacon and fried tomatoes with relish, careful not to jostle the tray too much or risk sloshing tea everywhere. "I took some breakfast out to the stables."
Tamlin blinked at her, then frowned, glancing at the window. Assessing the position of the sun, she realised, as he said, "It's barely past dawn. Did you not get back to sleep after I woke you?"
"I did," Nesta told him honestly. "I slept better than I have in a very long time. Do you always sleep with a dagger?"
"Usually," Tamlin grunted softly, a soft moan of appreciation escaping as he chewed a mouthful of tomato, bacon and fried bread. "You didn't have to prepare all this."
"I was taught to show my gratitude," Nesta said quietly. "This is for the fire."
"Is it better?" Tamlin asked, his emerald eyes brightening as he glanced quickly at her. Nesta nodded.
"It's miraculous," she admitted. "And I – After we've eaten, we should talk about expectations."
"What expectations?" Tamlin frowned.
"Finish your breakfast first," Nesta said, surprised to find her plate almost cleared, the last mouthful of frittata waiting for her. She cleaned her plate and picked up her spoon, savouring every mouthful of the creamy, shredded cheese, how tart and light and clean it tasted, the tang contrasted with the sweetness and citrus of the poached rhubarb, a delicious earthy crunch from the pistachios. It was so simple yet the citrus and the pistachios made it an indulgence – at least for her. She drank her tea and wished she had brought up a carafe of the icy water that came from the taps in the kitchens.
"That was delicious," Tamlin said quietly, glancing at Nesta. His expression was so earnest. She had noticed that when Tamlin was calm, his voice was gentle, rich and almost melodic. Thus far, he had only spoken harshly when confronted with her enforced ignorance and mistreatment at the hands of Rhysand and his favourites. He had been furious for her, not at her, and she had watched him visibly rein himself in, calming himself. "What did you call it? A frittata?"
"Yes," Nesta nodded.
"I've always loved anything with eggs. And the poached rhubarb with the cheese was wonderful," Tamlin sighed, sounding almost content, and he refilled their teacups. "Do you like to cook?"
"Not for myself," Nesta said, sighing.
"It's not the same," Tamlin agreed.
"When did you learn to bake?" Nesta asked curiously.
"When I was young, I was a soldier," Tamlin said. "Sometimes I was rotated into the cooks' tents. Others viewed it as a punishment."
"Woman's work?"
"No. To serve others," Tamlin said softly, sipping his tea. He glanced at her over the rim of his teacup. "I was a son of the High Lord: they thought it would shame me to peel potatoes and ladle soup to common foot-soldiers."
"It didn't?"
"There was always a fire going in the cooks' tents, so I never suffered the cold," Tamlin said, his eyes twinkling. "We often sang as we worked. And we ate together as soon as the food was prepared, before we served the battalion. I learned to cook. I enjoyed it… And everyone wants to be friends with the person who doles out their dinner."
Nesta smiled. Tamlin drained his teacup.
"You mentioned expectations. What did you mean?" Tamlin prompted, and she sighed, setting her clean bowl down.
"I do not wish to take advantage of your generosity," Nesta said, frowning slightly. "I also understand that me coming here may have political repercussions. What I – I need to know what my status is here: if I am a guest or whether you expect me to work – which I can do. I am more than capable of working for my room and board."
"You don't need to work for me, Nesta," Tamlin said quietly. "What is it you want?"
"I want certainty," Nesta blurted, and exhaled sharply, her eyes widening. That was all she had ever wanted – what she had striven for ever since Mama's death and their loss of fortune. "I… I need to know that whatever happens…" She paused, fiddling with the handle of her teacup. "I need something of my own, something that I can earn, something that can never be taken from me – no matter what political nastiness may arise – I don't want you to –"
"To what?" Tamlin prompted gently, as if he was aware that the flush in her cheeks was from shame. She was at once proud of freedom from the Night Court and ashamed to once again have absolutely nothing to her name. After everything she had done, she was here again…
"I don't want you to be able to snatch it all away if the mood strikes, if you decided to punish me when we fall out," Nesta said quietly, but she held his gaze.
"When?" Tamlin said lightly.
"I am not an easy person to have around."
"I'm sure the people who told you that have perspectives that are to be trusted absolutely," Tamlin said, smirking, and Nesta smiled in response, though she did not feel it.
"They are right, though. I am not to most people's tastes," Nesta said. "I am harsh. I'm also demanding, stubborn, self-sufficient and always right." Tamlin smiled.
"And thoughtful," he said quietly, and she frowned. He indicated the breakfast tray. "From what I have observed, you are also shrewd, proud and kind. You don't shy away from saying what you think."
"As I said, I am not to everyone's taste," Nesta said, her cheeks faintly warm.
"I imagine the people who dislike you are the ones who dread hearing the truth of what you have to say about them," Tamlin said shrewdly, his eyes darkening. She knew exactly who he was thinking of, and her mind went to the Night Court. The Inner Circle, as Rhysand called it. An orgy of nepotism, self-congratulation and mutual masturbation.
She cleared her throat. "Tamlin… I need to know what is expected of me here."
"I don't know yet," he said plainly, with a little shrug of those enormous shoulders. He sighed heavily. This was the Tamlin that Feyre had described when she had been sent back to the human lands. Lacking in courtly finesse but utterly earnest. He chose his words carefully, which meant he said very little but meant it. "I don't know. If you wish, there are cottages in the villages nearby: you would do me a favour by residing there and maintaining them. Do you fear Rhysand?"
The question came out of nowhere and caught her. Nesta thought carefully before she answered. "No. I have no respect for his political views or treatment of others he considers unequal to him. I know that he fears me."
"Rhysand fears you?" Tamlin gaped at her, stunned.
"My power, specifically," Nesta murmured, "whatever it truly is."
She was also starting to realise that Amren's hostility likely stemmed from her new powerlessness. She envied Nesta for her power, power that had been stripped from Amren. Nesta had a fleeting thought – would Amren rather have died than live on, powerless? As less than she believed herself to be. That what she now was was unworthy of who she was.
His tone flat, Tamlin said, "He's afraid of it."
"He's the self-proclaimed most powerful High Lord in history," Nesta mimicked, sneering. "That kind of ego… What he cannot control he will seek to destroy, just because it is a threat to his self-perception… I am afraid that he will find out I came here and consider it a declaration of my intent to…"
"To what?"
"To stand up to him, I suppose, as no-one else has ever dared," Nesta said. "To declare war. I have learned much about the Night Court. If you are not one of them, you are against them. You are their enemy and unworthy of anything you have. You saw how they treated Tarquin, stealing from under his nose. They treated Lucien appallingly –"
Tamlin frowned, his gaze sharp. "What?" Nesta sighed heavily, thinking carefully before she answered.
"They punished him for believing their lies. He distrusted them and with good reason. They were vile to him without any cause whatsoever – except that you both dared show relentless concern for Feyre and refused to stop until you had found her and brought her to safety," Nesta said coolly. "They… They spin lies to conceal a warped truth they believe and punish anyone who sees things as they truly are. They punished Lucien for believing the lie – and for not trusting their truth when they revealed it. For not accepting what was presented in front of his eyes, for looking deeper, for judging them by their actions not just taking them at their word… They used a past they had no entitlement to as an excuse to punish and torment…" Nesta sighed heavily. They had treated Lucien, she realised, the same way they had treated her. Tamlin's eyes glimmered like emerald flame as he watched her, his body still, coiled with predatory intent. "They like to do that: punish you for failing to see them as they wish to be seen. But Lucien fought for Feyre Under the Mountain. He searched for her when she was snatched from this court… He fought for us in Hybern… He helped Feyre despite all she did here. He went out of his way to come up with plans to garner allies and military support and carried them out magnificently… And that was in spite of their hostility toward him. He understood what truly mattered, and it wasn't them. He did what he did to benefit all of Prythian… He has done more for my family and for Prythian than they would ever dare acknowledge. Their egos are so fragile they could never accept that someone else is their superior in every way. Instead they bully and belittle them until they reach their breaking-point."
"Is that what they did to you?" Tamlin asked quietly.
"I –" Nesta broke off, staring at Tamlin. "I don't pretend that I am superior to anyone."
"That's not what I meant and you know it," Tamlin said.
"I refused to worship and obey them," Nesta said quietly. "Refused to see them as they have convinced themselves the world should see them. I refused to flatter their egos. I did more than I ever should have had to during the war and have been punished for it ever since. They ignored me when they could and when they could not, they manipulated things against me to make me seem worse than I am, to make me seem a villain… I believe they are threatened by me."
"More than likely," Tamlin said. "You are unlike anything in this world. They fear what they do not understand."
"We are trained from an early age to defend ourselves when we feel threatened. They go beyond that," Nesta said quietly. "They systematically antagonise: they physically threaten, financially control and emotionally manipulate…anything to provoke a reaction that can justify what they have had planned for months."
"What did they plan to do, Nesta?" Tamlin asked quietly, his eyes narrowing. When she did not answer, he repeated, "What did they plan to do?" The low rumble of threat, of rage, whispered through her veins like a song. She felt…relief that he was so angry at the faintest hint of threat to her safety.
"Rhysand has been waiting for any excuse to kill me," Nesta told him plainly. His eyes flashed, and Nesta hated herself for it but she froze, waiting for it – for Tamlin's temper. The rage that had exploded through this palace so many times before…according to Feyre.
A muscle ticked in Tamlin's strong jaw: his eyes glowed like emerald fires: his shoulders heaved as he panted, growling softly. And when she realised his eyes darted as he rapidly sorted through the information she had given him, she relaxed.
She felt no physical threat to her safety.
Perhaps because she knew the anger was not directed at her. Perhaps because she could see Tamlin thinking.
Perhaps because his fists were clenched around the dark, brutal claws that had extended and sharpened at the tips of his fingers. Perhaps because his chest heaved as he took deep breaths to calm himself, even as his mind worked to process the information, to sift through it and reconcile it with what he knew and what he had suspected.
"You're his sister," Tamlin growled softly. "If not by blood then by bond."
"And Feyre is his mate. He believes everything she's ever told him about me. The half-truths told to flatter her and build her up as more than she is," Nesta said, shrugging delicately. "They are well-matched in that, at least: their astounding narcissism. But he's far cleverer than she is: he'd claim he's protecting Feyre from someone who has always been evil to her and murder me to eliminate me as a threat to his power."
Tamlin stared at her. "Feyre would… She would allow that –?"
"You're assuming he would listen to her protests, if she even was to protest," Nesta said coolly. "She's – He dominates her, even if she's too entranced to see it. Anyway, she's never let anything get in her way. If she believes I am a threat to her getting exactly what she wants…"
"Surely things are not so bad between you two?"
"They improved after…after you sent her away from here," Nesta said, glancing around the library. She gave him a sad smile. Because things had improved between them. Feyre…had come to her for advice – and listened to it when Nesta offered it. That was all Nesta had ever wanted from Feyre: for her to listen. For her to allow Nesta to help her. "Then she fell in with Rhsysand's Inner Circle. They enable and encourage the worst of her nature."
"I wanted to blame Rhysand for what she tried to do here. Her manipulation and scheming… Her viciousness."
"That was entirely her," Nesta told him quietly, a bite to her tone. "She blames you for what happened in Hybern." Tamlin scoffed, shaking his head.
"I know what the Night Court believes," he said gruffly. "A shame they acted alone." Nesta frowned at him.
"What do you mean?"
"Rhysand wasn't the only one who saw Hybern's invasion coming," Tamlin sighed. "Rhysand's just the only High Lord who believed he alone could read the signs and cared to do anything about it. He's also the only High Lord who is universally distrusted."
"He has allies amongst the other High Lords."
"Helion, you mean," Tamlin shrugged. "Helion does as he pleases. He always has." His eyes warmed slightly as he smiled, as if genuinely fond of Helion. "Ultimately Helion's far too cunning for his friendship with the Night Court to be purely for friendship's sake. The Night Court is historically the most vicious of Prythian's courts: Helion has insight into those who rule it."
"You speak so well of Helion. But didn't he refuse to break the bargain between Feyre and Rhysand?"
"As was his right," Tamlin sighed heavily, shaking his head. "It would have involved him in a political mess between the Spring and Night Courts, when he had to think about Day first and foremost. He may be new to the role of High Lord but not to politics. His uncle sent him here often enough that I know Helion's nature."
"I always thought it was loyalty to Rhysand that prevented him from severing the bargain," Nesta said, and mused that Rhysand probably believed the same thing. She remembered the glorious male at Thesan's palace, radiating pure light and oozing masculinity and the promise of wicked sex. She remembered her immediate disdain for him the moment he revealed himself as allied with them. That he regularly took Morrigan to bed.
Any respect for him had fizzled out in that moment.
Tamlin chuckled softly. "Helion is loyal to the Day Court. To himself and the people he has sworn to protect. He may be all innuendo and swagger on the outside but Helion is shrewd, calculated and careful. His uncle taught him well."
Nesta stared at him. "I had forgotten that you knew the previous High Lords."
"Yes," he said quietly. "Nostrus from Summer, Helion's uncle, Amon, they were – they were good friends and excellent High Lords… Prythian is poorer for their loss. Tarquin and Helion have it in them to be even better."
"What about Kallias?"
"Him. Ice runs through his veins," Tamlin said quietly.
"His mate is insufferable," Nesta said shortly, and Tamlin chuckled, nodding in silent agreement as he refreshed their teacups. She remembered with absolute disdain the childish squeals and inane conversations of Morrigan and her beloved old friend Viviane. She remembered sitting there wondering just when in a Fae's life-span they reached maturity – for certainly neither Morrigan nor Viviane had yet reached that crucial moment. "And what about – the calm one with the lovely eyes, who hosted the summit?"
"Thesan?" Tamlin said, and genuine affection made his entire face soften and radiate warmth. "Thesan is wonderful. He's what I aspire to be. He has always been the best of us – and is even more so now. He is the eldest of us, the one who has been High Lord the longest – the one Tarquin and Helion should look to as an example."
"But they won't?"
"Every court has its own distinct history and culture," Tamlin said carefully. "What works in Dawn cannot work in other Courts: the foundations that Dawn is built on are not present anywhere else. Not yet, anyway."
"What about here?" Nesta asked, and Tamlin smiled softly.
"Here, I am trying something…something unlike Spring has known before, something unique to Prythian, reflecting how I wish this Court to rule itself," Tamlin said thoughtfully. "It is different from Dawn but the foundations are just as strong."
"I wish I knew more about the Courts," Nesta said wistfully.
"Perhaps you could visit them," Tamlin suggested.
"I don't feel I know enough about Fae culture to keep myself out of trouble," Nesta said honestly, and something glinted in Tamlin's eyes.
"What do you know about the Fae lands?" Tamlin asked curiously.
"That they border the human ones," Nesta said bluntly, and Tamlin laughed softly, easing the sting of shame that stemmed from her ignorance. He glanced over his shoulder at the stacks. "The Geography section is excellent. Help yourself to books."
"Thank you."
Tamlin frowned at her, and she could see him thinking. "You asked me what my expectations are."
"I did," Nesta said, sitting up straighter, preparing herself.
"You're all skin and grief. What if I said that my expectation is that you take all the time you need to get healthy," Tamlin said quietly, giving her body a very subtle look. "To spend your days eating and exercising and educating yourself and doing what brings you joy?"
"How does that help you?"
"I cannot expect you to contribute to my court to the best of your abilities when you neglect yourself," Tamlin said gently. "When you can come to me and tell me with absolute conviction that you feel you are healthy and capable, we can find something to put your talents towards. I'm sure you have many."
"I do," Nesta said honestly. Tamlin grinned at her candour.
"Would you prefer to live in the village or remain here?"
"How often are you away?" Nesta asked.
"Quite often," Tamlin said, looking almost crestfallen that his absence rather than his presence might be a deciding factor for her.
"Who provides for whoever hides in the hay when you're gone?" Nesta asked.
"I leave baskets of food," Tamlin said quietly.
"You said it's a misconception that it is perpetually balmy weather here," Nesta said. "Does that mean that the Spring Court has its own version of winter?"
"Yes."
"And winter is coming," Nesta said softly. They had already passed the equinox: Solstice was a few months away. "Bread and cheese and fresh fruit won't suffice to keep the cold at bay. They need hot meals, regularly. No: I will stay here, as long as you allow it."
"Are you sure? Remember, there are no wards here."
Nesta paused. "I've never had the benefit of wards before in my life: I won't miss them now," she said sternly, and Tamlin shrugged.
"Broken as it is, there is still powerful magic in the foundations of this palace," Tamlin said quietly. "If anything happens, it will protect you."
"Even in your absence?"
"I invoked sanctuary on your behalf when you accepted guest-right," Tamlin said. "It is ancient magic. It cannot be manipulated or violated: it is woven into the very magic of this land. This palace especially was built on the power of guest-right. It has a long memory, back to the days before Prythian was divided into the celestial and seasonal courts."
"I didn't realise there was such a time."
"So far in the past that history became legend, and legend became myth," Tamlin said quietly. "If people know the stories at all, fewer still believe that they are anything more than that – stories."
"But they are part of your history, of your culture?" Nesta pressed, and Tamlin nodded.
"The legend of Fionn was always one of my favourites," he said.
"Who was Fionn?"
"He was Prythian's first and only High King," Tamlin said. "He brought people together – Fae and human alike – and led them as they fought for their freedom."
"He sounds like a male worth knowing," Nesta sighed.
"Fionn is the kind of person who is born once in millennia," Tamlin said, rather gloomily. She noticed he had said person – not male. He stood and disappeared among the stacks: Sipping her tea, Nesta heard him muttering to himself as he searched the shelves. A few moments later, he reappeared, holding a book bound with weathered cloth that might once have been navy, embossed with age-dulled silver details on the spine and cover. "This was always my favourite version of the legend of Fionn. It's…more historical, far less romanticised than other retellings, but it also refuses to paint Fionn in a better light than he should be."
"What do you mean?"
"The author did not shy away from describing Fionn's mistakes and shortcomings," Tamlin said. "The Fionn in this retelling seems as if he might actually have been a real person. He's not idealised; he pays for his mistakes – but he also learns from them."
"Is that why the story resonates with you?"
"Yes," Tamlin said, and something flickered across his face. "Even more so now."
He left it at that. Nesta wondered what he meant but didn't push. He handed her the book and just by the scent alone Nesta realised it was far more ancient than it looked. Touching the brittle cover, Nesta could feel the magic that preserved it, and gasped at the tingle at her fingertips. Tamlin looked sharply at her, frowning.
"Are you alright?"
"I can – I can feel the magic preserving it," she said quietly, and Tamlin looked surprised. Her own magic rippled as if in response, unfurling like a curious cat, and she wondered if she could start to understand the magic if she held on long enough, if she allowed her mind to explore.
"Many Fae publishers enchant their books for longevity," Tamlin said.
"Wouldn't that defeat the purpose?" Nesta asked. "Surely it's in the best interests of the publishers that they don't last? People have to purchase them again."
"Among the Fae, it's considered dishonourable to try and dupe each other in such ways," Tamlin said. "If books disintegrated in mere decades, the publisher would quickly lose their reputation and Fae would refuse to support them by purchasing from them."
"Even if it was the only way to obtain what they can publish?"
"In Prythian, at least, we have incredibly stringent intellectual property laws. It is within the rights of any creator to withdraw their intellectual property from a publisher if they put it at risk," Tamlin said. "The Dawn Court is known worldwide as a hub of innovation: Thesan goes out of his way to protect his people and their ideas. It is the height of dishonour in the Dawn Court to claim another's ideas as one's own. That's why their culture is so collaborative, even amongst the fiercest competitors. There is a respect for ingenuity that is at the heart of everything they do."
"You make me curious to visit the Dawn Court," Nesta said honestly.
"It's a place like no other," Tamlin said, almost wistfully.
"What is Spring like?" Nesta asked.
"Did Feyre tell you nothing about her time here?" Tamlin asked quietly.
"Well, yes, but her versions of the Spring Court altered depending on whose bed she was climbing into," Nesta said tartly. Pink tinged Tamlin's gloriously high cheekbones. Nesta relented, saying gently, "That was tactless of me."
"But succinct," Tamlin shrugged.
Nesta frowned at him. "I don't understand it."
"What?"
"She died for you. Yet after the Mountain, she detested everything about you," Nesta said softly, wonderingly, and winced apologetically as Tamlin flinched as if struck. She had heard Feyre's stories about Rhysand and the mating bond and how he would have stayed away if she was truly happy with Tamlin yet…he'd had his claws sunk deep into her the moment she made that accursed bargain Under the Mountain. She sniffed, shaking her head. "There I go again; tactless. I shouldn't have said that."
"I often tortured myself thinking the same thing – how Feyre could go from being willing to die for me to being unable to bear even thinking about me," Tamlin said. His eyes gleamed with suppressed rage and something else – something that twisted Nesta's heart. Grief. True hurt.
"If I didn't know better, I'd wonder if Rhysand's disdain for you influenced her more than they care to realise," Nesta said softly. "How much of him oozed down the bond Feyre refused to acknowledge between them until he forced her to accept it."
"Rhysand has always had a strong personality," Tamlin said quietly. "Feyre was fierce, though. Stubborn and ignorant but fierce." Nesta smiled.
"Yes, she is all those things," she agreed. Her smile faded. "Tamlin, is it possible that he influenced her, even if it was done so unintentionally, without true malice towards you?"
"Rhysand will always be biased against me," Tamlin said with a devastating sort of acceptance. "We have too much between us. Even if he tried not to, his inherent bias would affect his thoughts about me, and how he spoke of me to her."
Nesta frowned. "Do you…"
"What?"
"He once told Feyre that if she had been truly happy with you, he would have allowed her to marry you," she said, sneering – because that was exactly as Feyre had said it to her. That Rhysand would have allowed Feyre to marry another male. She scoffed angrily, "As if it was ultimately his decision how she chose to live her life, and with whom! He claims he wouldn't have acted if she had been happy. But how could she go from dying for you to being relieved that he 'rescued' her on the day of your wedding?"
Tamlin was quiet for a long time: he turned to the breakfast tray, refilling their teacups again.
"I spent a long time gripped by terror at the thought of what he was doing to her," Tamlin said finally. "What she did here, how she treated me and Lucien and everyone who tried to embrace her and help her… You remember what I said about Helion refusing to help?" Nesta nodded. "She belongs to the Night Court now. And… She is your sister but she is not worth going to war over."
Tamlin blinked and chuckled softly at something he had said. It was a sad sort of laugh, though, accepting yet sorrowful. She asked, "Why are you laughing?"
"Something a friend says," Tamlin shrugged. "Everything before the word 'but' is chimera-shit." Nesta raised her eyebrows.
"You went to war for her once before."
Tamlin's gaze was steady, almost challenging. There was a secret smile at the corners of his lips. "Did I?"
Rhysand and his favourites had told them that Tamlin… They had told them… They believed that Tamlin had sold out Prythian to snatch Feyre from Rhysand's clutches.
Suddenly tired, Nesta raised a hand to rub her aching temple. "I'm so tired of battling ignorance," she grumbled. "I – You were right. How can I have a hope of enduring this world if I cannot even handle my own body?"
"You can," Tamlin said, his quiet tone full of unshakeable certainty she wished she felt. "You'll learn to."
"How do you know?"
"Because there is no alternative that you would ever accept," Tamlin said.
"You think so?"
"I saw you in Hybern," Tamlin said carefully, and she glanced sharply at him. "You didn't weep. You fought. Even as they forced you under, you refused to surrender. You met your fate proudly and promised vengeance. I saw you at your worst and was staggered by what I saw."
Nesta refused to lose herself to the memories: instead, she focused on one thing. Him. The Tamlin of her memories, unadulterated by anyone's bias. Her truth about what happened. Her memories of Tamlin struggling, fighting for her, defending her, risking his life to try to protect her…
"I think I saw you at your best," she said quietly. She cleared her throat awkwardly. "One day, will you help me combat my ignorance?"
"About what?" Tamlin asked.
"About you. About Hybern," Nesta said. "I only know what they told me, and… And I know their perspective is warped by their hatred. I want to know everything."
Tamlin stared at her, then shrugged. "It doesn't matter now."
"It matters," Nesta said firmly. "It matters."
He gave her a subdued smile. She gazed back, determined never to hold the opinions of those she did not trust against him. To actively ignore any bias that she had inherited and to get to know Tamlin as he was.
It was easy, when the first she had ever heard of Tamlin was so positive – and every awful thing she had ever heard came from those who despised him, and whom she placed zero faith in, had no respect for.
"I have to leave again," Tamlin told her, as he tidied the breakfast tray and lifted it. "Is there anything you need before I go?"
"No," Nesta said, and Tamlin raised his eyebrows at her.
"Really?" he prompted. "Nothing? You have only the clothes on your back – surely there's something you need."
Clothes. Her lips parted, and she flushed. He read her embarrassment for what it was: shame at being beholden to him.
"I don't want to take advantage," she said calmly.
"You're not; I'm offering," Tamlin said. "You are my guest, under my protection; it's my duty to provide for you. It would shame me to see you go without. I'm not going to tally my kindnesses as debts to be repaid, Nesta."
He said it so softly, with such understanding, that she balked. Gently, he said, "You lost everything, once. I cannot imagine the toll it took."
"What would you know of it?" Nesta bristled, more viciously than she meant to. Because her cheeks flushed hotly and flames ignited in her eyes, burning.
"I remember the cottage," Tamlin said softly, ignoring her tone, and her cheeks flushed hotter. "I remember every detail…and what Feyre told me about your lives did not match up to what I saw with my own eyes. Someone had made that cottage a home. I could feel it."
"It was my home," Nesta said fiercely. "I –"
She broke off, aware how angry she felt, reining herself in, refusing to lash out at this person who had shown her nothing but kindness and concern. Tamlin just nodded, as if she had confirmed something he suspected.
"Like I said, it's not a debt to be repaid," Tamlin said. "But if it puts you at ease, consider your room and board – and anything else you need – payment for providing for Antares."
"Who?"
"He lives in the stables. One of the garudaie."
Nesta blinked. "I don't know what that means."
"He is…an avian shifter," Tamlin said carefully.
"Wings," Nesta breathed grimly, flinching as she remembered the hellish journey she had taken in Rhysand's arm when he took to the skies – punishing her by flying dangerously and erratically.
"Yes." Nesta frowned at him. "Why don't you want to tell me about him?"
"I suppose I am protective of him," Tamlin said quietly.
"Why do you feed him? Can he not provide for himself?" Nesta asked curiously. She had wondered, last night.
"Antares is…by the life-expectancy of his own species, he is barely considered a child," Tamlin said.
"Where are his family?"
"If they are alive, they are in Hybern," Tamlin said grimly, and Nesta stared. "Antares was a…a stable-boy to one of Hybern's commanders." She didn't like the way he said it, implying that what he had said and what he meant were two different things. And she was too afraid to ask him to clarify.
"Why is he here?" Nesta asked.
"Oh. I murdered the commander and took Antares as my personal squire," Tamlin said brusquely, snapping his fingers: the breakfast tray and everything on it gleamed with cleanliness and started drifting through the air to the pantries, tucking themselves away.
She needed to learn how to do that. She frowned at Tamlin, "Why didn't Hybern punish you for slaughtering one of his commanders?"
Dully, Tamlin said, "He respected viciousness."
Two things occurred to Nesta. Firstly, that she had been engaged in conversation about Hybern without succumbing to that all-consuming panic that usually gripped her. Secondly, that she had no idea what Tamlin had endured during the war.
He had allied with Hybern. Why?
You went to war for her once before.
Did I?
If not for Feyre, then why had Tamlin allied with Prythian's greatest enemy? And what had the Night Court been excluded from purely out of their own arrogance, the other Lords' distrust of them – what had the other Lords been doing while Rhysand exploited them as part of his grand plans?
A.N.: Because I want these questions answered! What was going on in the rest of Prythian while the NC convinced themselves they're the only people in the world with half a clue?!