Feyre barely noticed the hours passing. She felt like a new kind of predator in the forest, able to fly across the snow and river rocks as she stalked her prey. In addition to the rabbit, she'd captured a small pheasant and even a badger, which she knew would sell well at the market.
Feyre settled against the bark of an elm tree, closing her eyes and breathing deeply in the cool morning air. Around her, the sun's rays were breaking around the tree trunks, striking the ground in half-hazard patterns and making the frost shine like glitter. The forest was coming alive to greet the day; a cacophony of bird calls surrounded her, and the soft breeze made the branches above her sway.
But then she heard it. Something had stepped on a fallen twig––something big. Feyre pulled an arrow from her quiver, taking a deep breath as she notched it through her bow. She focused her thoughts and swung around the tree trunk, her fingers ready to release their hold on the string.
But the source of the noise surprised her.
"Bastard," Feyre said, before lowering her bow. "I could have pinned you to that trunk if my instincts were fae." Still, she let small laugh escape her cold lips. "I didn't expect to see you back for another few weeks."
The figure sauntered forward, his footfalls light over the underbrush. It was clear he had stepped on the twig to alert her. "Yes, but I knew you'd be missing me and my sharp wit."
"Please. The only sharp thing about you is your ears," Feyre said, before striding forward and throwing her arms around the male. "I'm happy to see you back, Lucien." He returned her hug, fitting his chin over her head and squeezing her tightly.
"So did I, scrawny human," he jested, poking her side. "It was boring without someone delicate to watch over." Feyre mocked pushing him away, a grin splitting across her frozen lips.
"Oh please. We both know how you moaned when you had that tiny splinter in your palm. I'm definitely not the one who needs to be called delicate."
Feyre had known Lucien for the better part of three years, having run into the High Fae male while on a hunt. She was initially cautious of the male, especially with his long, brilliant red hair that signified his ties to the Autumn Court.
Lucien was courteous, even formal, in their first meeting, offering to retrieve the arrows she had embedded in the upper trunk of an ancient spruce tree in a wasted effort to bring down a particularly fat squirrel. But his words had barely registered for Feyre. Instead, she'd focused her attention on the fae's golden, metallic left eye, and the long, slashing scar that stretched from the fae's brow to his jaw.
He noticed her staring but didn't remark on it, instead simply turning to launch at the bottom branch of the tree. Feyre watched, dumbstruck, as he leapt from branch to branch, barely shaking the leaves with each landing. Her eyes widened as he jumped from the tallest branch, landing in front of her as if he weighed no more than a feather before offering her the retrieved arrows.
Lucien was respectful and even kind in their following interactions, teaching her new ways to repair arrows and improve her aim. His laughter and smiles came easily, and he displayed genuine concern for Feyre and her family, offering to set snares and other traps for her while she hunted to ensure she returned home with enough food. With each meeting, his metallic eye and scar began to disappear to Feyre, instead just becoming a small part of a more vibrant picture. Instead, she began to take notice of his golden skin that seemed to emit warmth whenever she was near him, of the way his smile would rise higher on his left side, and the crinkles that formed around his eyes when he laughed. Over the years, Lucien transformed from an occasional hunting companion to a friend.
"Where were you this time?" Feyre said, slinging her bow around her shoulder and moving to gather the dead rabbit. Lucien remained behind her, pulling a knife and bundle of snares from his own bag. "Anywhere warm? Perhaps reminiscent of summer?"
"I saw wonders far and wide," he said, grinning back at her. "But you know I never kiss and tell."
The question and response had become a small joke between them. As an emissary for the Spring Court, Lucien was constantly traveling between lands, delivering updates and handling political negotiations on behalf of the High Lord. His role was important but also secretive, and Feyre knew that Lucien couldn't talk about most––if any––of the work he did on his journeys. Especially now, when the peace felt so tenuous.
"You were gone much longer than usual this time," Feyre said as they made their way towards a clearing with a pond. "Anything with the king we should be concerned about?"
Lucien took a deep breath, but he didn't answer Feyre. "How are your sisters?" He asked, changing the subject. "Nesta still giving you trouble?"
Feyre sighed. She briefly debated on pushing Lucien to give her an answer, but she'd never been able to get him to part with his secrets before, no matter how insignificant they were or how hard she tried. ""Nesta is…Nesta. Elain accepted Grayson's proposal."
Lucien paused; his head cocked to the side and the pupil in his golden eye focusing. "Really? I thought you said you weren't sure she even liked the man."
"I'm not exactly sure how Elain feels. She's been keeping to herself more and more lately," Feyre let out in a huff as she began to resettle behind a tree, pulling her bow back from her shoulder. "But she seems happy about it, and Nesta is thrilled by the match." She noticed Lucien still staring at her, an odd expression on his face. "What? Something wrong?"
He shook his head, blinking rapidly as he did so, as if he was refocusing. "I'm happy for your family––Graysen is lucky to have found Elain."
"It's clear he cares for her ," Feyre said. "But cauldron boil and fire me, his friends can be idiots. We're meeting them for a celebration at the tavern tonight. I'm excited for the wine but I could do without their company."
Lucien chuckled as he finished placing his snares around the clearing before settling in the tree next to Feyre's. "You know, I've started to notice that you know all about my family, but I still don't have any information about yours, besides that you've got a brother who is a, what did you say––oh right! An insufferable bastard," Feyre said, mimicking Lucien with her last words.
Lucien laughed, but Feyre noticed that it seemed a tad forced. Like his job, Lucien didn't divulge much about his family. All Feyre knew was that he was the youngest child in his brood, and that he had been born in the autumn court; hardly new information considering his russet eye and long red hair.
Sometimes, when they would sit in companionable silence together in the woods, Feyre would see Lucien staring at her, his eyes focusing and his mouth slightly open as if he was about to say something, his brows furrowed as if worried. But then those looks would flash away so quickly she couldn't be sure they were ever even there. Maybe she'd been projecting, hoping too much that her friend trusted her enough to let her into his confidence.
"And how is our dear high lord? Is he behaving himself?" Feyre asked, and this got a genuine smile out of Lucien.
"You could always ask him yourself," he offered.
"Yes, but that would require being in his presence, and you know how that bores me," Feyre quipped, scrunching her nose.
"My lady, you wound me so."
Feyre whirled at the deep voice, her heard pounding madly at her chest as she spun to take in the clearing and the speaker. But she knew who it was ––knew before she even set eyes on him.
"You're a bit late, Tamlin," Lucien answered, his lips quirking at Feyre's reaction to the new fae male that was sauntering towards them. Feyre tried to maintain what little composure she had left as she locked eyes with their intruder.
"My lord," she breathed, quieter than she intended as she dipped her head in greeting. The High Lord of the Spring Court was dressed in hunting clothes, like Feyre and Lucien, but while Feyre's were threadbare and Lucien's were plain, his clothing was clearly expertly made, with small details embroidered at the cuffs of his tunic and the finest leather used for his bracers and boots. His long, golden hair was pinned back, revealing a handsome face with bright green eyes.
Eyes that seemed singularly focused on Feyre. She felt a slight drop in her stomach, and she knew he could sense her surprise––judging by his growing smile he enjoyed it.
"What kept you? I think Feyre's about done here. Lucien said, striding forward and grasping Tamlin's forearm in the typical fae greeting. "Feyre's been at it since daybreak, and I've been able to correct her form enough to send her on her way for today." He tossed a look back at Feyre, winking.
"One of the priestesses came to me with an urgent matter," Tamlin answered, finally pulling his focus from Feyre. "It's been resolved without issue," he said, cutting Lucien's question off before he had a chance to voice it. When Lucien didn't look convinced, he continued, "I've been high lord for decades, Lucien. I don't need to convene a council every time a problem arises."
Feyre thought she noticed a flicker of tension between the two males. "Was it her?" Lucien asked, stepping closer to Tamlin. Was Lucien angry? Feyre wondered, watching her friend. She'd never seen him lose his composure before, certainly never in front of Tamlin.
"Drop it, Lucien." Tamlin ordered, his voice cutting. Suddenly she felt like she was an interloper, too close to court politics for her comfort. She thought they would say more, but instead Tamlin stepped forward, extending his hand toward Feyre's own.
"Feyre," he breathed, placing a gentle kiss on her hand in their usual greeting. The gesture broke her out of her reverie, and she turned to Lucien, whose gaze was still leveled at Tamlin.
"I'm sure he didn't want to be outmaneuvered by a human again, Lucien," Feyre teased, hoping a to break the tension that still permeated the air. "We both know his ego is fragile. Remember last time…with the ducks?" Feyre put her hand beside her mouth as she mock whispered to Lucien.
The last time Tamlin had joined Feyre and Lucien for a hunt, Feyre had gotten her arrows through three mallards, while Tamlin's seemed unable to land a single target. Feyre had giggled––actually giggled––when she saw his face fall after his last arrow left his bow.
"I'd rather have The Mother strike me down than shoot another arrow," he'd said, exaggerating his shame in a way that had made Feyre laugh even harder. Even Lucien was unable to contain his grin.
"Tamlin, I'm concerned your skill with the quill has surpassed your skill with the bow," Lucien had said, clapping his friend on the back. "All this time I've been helping Feyre with her archery when I should have been looking within my own court." Tamlin had elbowed him away while surreptitiously sending a wink to Feyre.
Her cheeks flushed as she recalled the memory––especially when she remembered what she'd done with the High Lord after Lucien had left them for the day.
Feyre couldn't call Tamlin a friend, not really. Lucien introduced them months earlier, after asking if she'd be comfortable with him bringing a friend on one of their hunting excursions. She'd acquiesced, thinking that––at last––she'd get to learn something new about Lucien, finally get to meet one of his friends.
She didn't expect him to bring the High Lord of the Spring Court to her forest. She'd gaped at Tamlin the first time they'd met, Feyre's thoughts barely coherent enough to remember the etiquette she'd learned from the Autumn Court. Her curtsy seemed to surprise Tamlin, and Lucien gawked at her as if he was seeing a deer walk on its hind legs.
Lucien's look had earned him a glare, and Tamlin laughed easily, the sound pleasantly filling her ears. Like Lucien, Tamlin appeared to be a few years older than Feyre. While most high fae would appear young for most of their lifetimes, the High Lord's apparent youth surprised her.
In their first interactions it was clear that Tamlin was wickedly intelligent, and like Lucien his fae instincts made Feyre feel like she was trudging through mud whenever she tried to keep pace with them during an active hunt. But while Lucien rarely let his emotions affect his mood or behavior, Tamlin could be impetuous, especially if they met with him after a long court meeting or bad news. He also seemed prone to anger, and she noticed that when this happened his hands would begin to transform, his nails becoming claws and the pupils in his eyes shifting into slits.
As the High Lord she knew he possessed a well of power, but moments like that would sometimes leave her wondering just how much mastery Tamlin had over his magic.
But there was also a lightness to Tamlin that Feyre grew to admire. His dirty limericks would make her laugh and blush, and he would tell stories of his youthful exploits as an emissary for his father, nudging Lucien whenever he'd be asked to corroborate a particularly outlandish tale. She found that the hours she spent in his company helped suspend her worries and brighten her own mood, as if his own merriment were a salve for her anxiety.
A few months ago, the end of a hunt, Lucien had to leave to attend to a matter in Feyre's village, and Tamlin offered to escort her through the woods and to the pathway to her house. Feyre was ready to refuse––she knew the woods like they were her own home, she didn't need an escort. But something in Tamlin's eyes stopped her from voicing her protests.
"Lucien tells me you are an artist," he said, as they walked through the underbrush.
Feyre was surprised that the High Lord would remember a detail like that about her. "Somewhat, I guess. I used to draw and paint whenever I had a free moment, but now there are things that always keep me occupied," she said. "My sisters purchased plaster and a few brushes and colors for me for my birthday last year. I used it to paint our dresser and the walls of our cottage. I'm out of practice though," Feyre said, trying to sound casual.
"Is that all you've painted recently? Your home?" He asked.
Feyre shook her head. "I've used the charcoal remnants from our fire to draw on spare pieces of paper and even on an outside wall of our cottage." Feyre smiled to herself, recalling how Elain had squealed when she saw Feyre's life-size sketch of her working in her garden. The next rainfall had erased it entirely, but Feyre was excited about a clean slate.
"Do you have any hobbies, my lord?" Feyre inquired.
Tamlin huffed and stopped, turning towards her. "You can just call me Tamlin." He locked his eyes with her, green catching on blue. "I'd like you to call me Tamlin, Feyre." He said her name softly, and it made her blush. She'd had to look away from the intensity of his gaze.
"I've been known to play a few songs on the fiddle," he said lightly as they began walking again. "As a youth I wanted to run away and become a traveling musician, playing in taverns for coins and drinks around the courts. But, as you can imagine, my father didn't think that was feasible for his successor."
"Really?" Feyre said, her brows rising. "What kind of music do you play?"
"All types of jigs ––reels were my favorite. But I've been known to play a ballad or hymn when the crowd calls for it," he said, and she could tell he was excited by her interest.
"I'd love to hear you play one day," Feyre said, the words leaving her mouth before she could think about it. He cocked his head, looking at her.
"I'll play for you if you show me one of your drawings or paintings."
She made sure to look into his eyes when she smiled, nodding at his request.
They made it to the edge of the forest, and she was prepared to turn for a formal farewell, but she found his eyes locked on her again.
"I enjoyed speaking with you, Feyre." Quickly, he leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to her check. She knew her heart was beating quickly, and Tamlin straightened, offering her a final smile before heading towards the stable where he kept his horse.
Every time she saw the high lord after that, she felt like there was a current of electricity between them. Every glance or slight touch from him sent a slow blush creeping up her cheeks, and she noticed his eyes lingering on her, too. She became keenly aware of how close he was to her when they sat against the same trunk, how touches to her arms and waist lasting a split second longer than usual. If Lucien noticed, he didn't say anything to Feyre about it when they were on their own.
It was easy to be in his presence, Feyre thought. Easy to laugh and hunt as if there was nothing outside of the woods to worry about. For a high lord, Tamlin certainly didn't act like he had any responsibilities when he was around Feyre, and she relished being a cause of joy for someone.
But things changed at the end of a hunt on an autumn day. Lucien had apologized, needing to leave early to collect an offering for an upcoming court celebration. Again, Tamlin offered to escort Feyre through the forest. But this time she didn't want to protest.
They didn't say anything as they walked through the trees, Tamlin's tunic unbuttoned and the ties in Feyre's shirt loosened so she could feel the breeze. Tamlin suddenly stopped and let out a breath, his hands at his sides. He was looking forward, as if deciding something. Feyre stopped walking as well, her brows furrowed as she watched him. In a flash he turned and closed the distance between them, his hands finding Feyre's face as he pulled her in for a kiss.
At first, Feyre had been too shocked to respond. She was being kissed. She was being kissed by Tamlin. The High Lord. He pulled back, his eyes going wide. "Sorry, I thought…"
Before he could finish his sentence Feyre wrapped her arms around him, pulling his mouth back towards hers. She could feel the tension that had been building between them in that kiss, the excitement of having feelings returned. Finally.
They hadn't been able to contain themselves after that, hadn't been able to stop themselves from wanting more. Feyre let Tamlin guide her towards a large oak, its branches providing much needed shade and privacy. He yanked off his tunic before pulling her back towards him, her hands already loosening the ties on her shirt. He helped her slip it over her head before he kissed her harder, pushing her back up against the tree.
Their lovemaking was frenzied, she remembered thinking, as if a single delay or voiced thought could shatter the experience. He hadn't been her first ––that had been the baker's son from the village, when she'd pursued the act more out of curiosity than any amorous feelings for her partner. She wasn't sure exactly what she felt for Tamlin, these feelings were still too new, but Mother above, she thought, it was good to feel something. And Tamlin certainly was a more skilled partner.
Feyre didn't see Tamlin for several months after their first encounter, which didn't upset her as much as she expected. She feared Tamlin could grow to be a distraction, and she needed to keep her wits about her. While her and her sisters hadn't gone hungry for months, she always felt like she was on the precipice of failing them. And in the few instances she was able to hunt with Lucien, it was clear he was stressed, making her worries about a lover feel even more inconsequential.
But that didn't stop her heart from leaping to her throat when Tamlin finally reappeared before her on a winter's morning. It was the first time he'd joined her without Lucien in tow, and he rushed towards her when she first saw him.
"I'm so sorry. The court kept me away for so long," he had said, immediately pulling her in for a kiss. She remembered how she'd grabbed her shoulders, their chests clashing together in their urgent movements.
"It's okay, it's okay," Feyre tried to say, but he didn't seem to be listening, trailing kisses down her jaw and neck. She pushed him back then, grabbing hold of his forearms in an attempt to steady him. "Tamlin," she said before noticing the wariness in his eyes. "Is everything alright?"
The shake of his head was nearly imperceptible, but she caught it, saw how tired he looked. She heaved a sigh, pulling him towards her for another kiss. Maybe this is how I can help, she thought.
They returned to their tree to make love, where he spread his tunic over the snow like a blanket for them. This time it was less frenzied, but still, Feyre sensed that something was amiss, that his need for this escape was almost too much. He trailed kisses over her entire body, building her to a crescendo twice before finally entering her, burying his face into her neck as they moved together. When it was done, she turned to face him, breathing heavily. For the first time, the worry that had shadowed his face seemed to have dissipated.
"Tamlin, is everything alright?" she asked, stroking a finger around his jaw.
He closed his eyes, lips pursing. "Everything is fine, Feyre. This isn't something a human should concern themselves with." He turned, facing her, before pulling her in for another kiss.
She felt like she'd been struck by the string from her bow, a light snap that caused a deeper hurt as the moments passed. But still, she kissed him back, unsure how to sort her tangled thoughts as he moved over her again.
They continued in that manner throughout the winter, finding isolated moments to meet. She didn't dare broach the topic of court politics after that first interaction, but she'd still found moments of joy in their coupling. In their hours together, they'd share stories and jokes, and one day he even brought his fiddle to play her a song. He was a reprieve from reality, and she was grateful for it.
But today he looked at ease as he strode across the clearing, carrying himself with a lightness that he hadn't previously. And for some reason, this gave her pause.
"As fun as this is, I think it's time I head home," she said, directing her words to Lucien. She bent to gather her carcasses in her hunting bag, keenly aware of the surprise on Tamlin's face. Lucien gave her a small nod, the earlier tension still present.
"I'll escort you out, as an apology for my tardiness," Tamlin offered. Lucien shot Feyre a curious look to Feyre, but she offered a small smile, dipping her head in acquiescence.
"Lucien, a pleasure as always," she said, dipping down in a dramatic curtsey. He chortled, but still returned her movement with an exaggerated bow, his hand covering his heart. "My lady, I am a humble servant always ready to bask in your presence." Tamlin rolled his eyes at their theatrics, but he still offered his arm to Feyre as a part of their charade. She turned, sending Lucien a final wink before they parted.
Tamlin's hand moved to Feyre's waist once they were out of Lucien's sight, pulling her into his side. "I missed you," he said simply, pressing a kiss to Feyre's temple. She squeezed his hand.
He began to pull her off the path in the direction of their tree, but she held back, prompting a look of immediate confusion from him.
"I can't today," she said, her hand cupping his cheek. "I have to get back. Elain's getting married, and I promised to attend the engagement celebration at the tavern this evening. And I definitely need to clean up," she finished, gesturing to her hair and the gore that flecked her arms.
Tamlin leaned forward, pulling her in for a deep kiss. She returned it, melting into him as his arms wrapped around her. Already she could feel his need for her, his hunger. "Are you sure?" He asked, his breath tickling her ear, his fingers gripping her hips, and she could feel that he was already ready for her.
Normally this would have her falling into his arms, but something today was different. She felt as if something was humming behind her eyes, keeping her focused and alert. She shook her head, giving him an apologetic look.
"if you're sure, my lady," he said as he stepped back, a note of formality returning as he straightened his shoulder. She frowned at him, unsure if this would trigger one of his moods.
They walked along in silence, her fingers twined with his. She turned to look at his face, watching as his eyes followed a bluebird through the trees. "A real spring shouldn't be far off."
"I'd trust you to know," she said, gently elbowing his ribs. He chuckled, offering her a wink, any tension between them passing.
"Elain is lucky to have found Graysen. It's a productive match," he remarked.
Feyre narrowed her eyes. "I think you mean Graysen is lucky to have found Elain."
"Yes, of course. I didn't mean to imply otherwise," he said, pulling her into his side again to press a kiss into the side of her face. "By the way, I have something for you." Feyre cocked her head, surprised. Tamlin handed her a small, wrapped parcel. "Something I've noticed you've needed."
She leaned into his side as she unwrapped the gift, emitting a soft 'oh' when she realized what it was. She held two thick leather bracelets, one of which contained a longer stretch of leather stenciled with delicate patterns of leaves.
"Tam, they're beautiful. You didn't have to do this––"
"Oh yes, I did. I've seen how that string can strike your arm when it slings back. You've been in need of a good vambrace for a while, but this should do until I can get a proper one made. The leather portion to protect your forearm can be folded back into the bracelet." Before he could demonstrate, Feyre threw her arms around his shoulders, planting a firm kiss on his mouth. He snaked his arms around her waist, lifting her up into the air and pressing her further into him. He began to carry her off the path.
"Tam, I want to, but I really can't today," she sighed. He lowered her back to the floor, but his hands didn't leave her waist, and he trailed kisses from her mouth to her jaw and down her neck, giving her a quick bite before relenting.
"Soon," he promised.
"Soon," she agreed, smiling coyly up at him.
It was nearly noon by the time she crossed the outer fence of their cottage, the latch swinging easily behind her. Elain was already out in her garden, meticulously pulling up weeds, her nails already brown with grime.
"Feyre!" She yelled in greeting, straightening. She wiped her hands on her apron before giving her sister a hug and slinging the hunting bag from her shoulder. Feyre wondered if her new husband would appreciate how much Elain liked getting her hands dirty. "I'll take these inside for Nes. It's heavy––good day in the woods?"
"For the most part," Feyre said, without thinking. She still felt agitated, as if the buzzing from her head had moved to her heart, making her feel like she was on high alert for danger. But she was glad to be home. She threw a look to the bed, which looked even more inviting after her restless night.
"You can sleep, but Nes will skin you alive if you muddy the sheets," Elain said, sparing a glance for Feyre's dirt and blood-steaked hands and face. "Bath first."
"Yes, my lady," Feyre laughed, already grabbing the bucket to fill with water from their outdoor spigot.
An hour later, Feyre crawled under the quilt Nesta had made for the sisters, pulling the fabric tightly around her. She could hear the cracking of the fire, and already her limbs were becoming heavy. She quickly succumbed to sleep, her mind drifting into dreams of a world of night, where she soared above craggy peaks, black wings stretching out above her like those of a mythical beast. The stars twinkled above her, glittering against a mosaic of dark blue.
She felt a presence envelope her, as if the darkness itself was caressing her as she flew. A grin broke across her face as she raced across the night sky.