A.N.: Anyone else hyped after the House of the Dragon trailer? Oh, I am so excited! The dynamic between Rhaenyra and Alicent is definitely going to influence this story!
While I'm building up Nesta's healing, there will be very few 'big' conflicts in the first chapters – those will come later: it's all about Nesta piecing herself back together and creating a place for herself in the Spring Court, and how her presence helps Tamlin.
A House of Flame and Flower
05
Torn Apart
"How long will you be gone this time?" Nesta asked, glancing up from her sewing.
At the other end of the daybed, Tamlin peeked blearily at her and sighed heavily, unfolding from where he had slumped. Distant thunder rumbled, rain thrashing against the windows. Inside the library, it was cosy: the firelight was soothing, its warmth chasing away a chill that had settled in for several days after the storm. Though it was not yet six o'clock, the days had become noticeably shorter, dusk coming earlier and earlier. The deep shadows under Tamlin's eyes betrayed his exhaustion, even if Nesta hadn't heard him scream himself awake from nightmares that sent him pacing the gardens until dawn, no matter the weather.
"A few days," Tamlin said.
"Should I have bandages prepared?" Nesta asked tartly, and Tamlin gave her a lopsided smile. He was exhausted: she could feel it seeping into her bones. Perhaps that was one of the reasons he sustained so many injuries.
The first time he had returned from one of his visits to the northern border shared with both the Summer and Autumn Courts, he had been nursing gashes and a split lip, broken nose and swollen eye. After the second, he had spent days wheezing through bruised ribs and only begrudgingly allowed her to nurse him because she refused to listen to his lungs crackling with every breath any longer.
The third time, after his longest absence yet, Tamlin had winnowed into the courtyard, stumbling, and promptly collapsed, his sword dropping to the ground with an echoing clang as his blood seeped over the flagstones. He had several deep slashes to almost every limb, as if he had been whipped with razors, his chest cut to the bone and his face almost peeling itself from a deep gash to his jaw.
He had been monster-hunting.
The third absence – a neoptera hunt – had accounted for fourteen days away from the palace. According to Tamlin, and the compendium of 'underfae' Nesta had found in the stacks, the neoptera were a gigantic insectoid faerie that relished peeling the skin from its living victims and slurping the ribbons before plucking the intestines through the nostrils with one of their three-foot-long needle-sharp antennae. They hunted in packs and were known to decimate entire villages overnight.
And Tamlin had decided to drop into a nest of them, taking them on single-handedly with only his sword and his ring-dagger to help him.
Nesta had learned that Tamlin did not make things easier for himself: in fact, he seemed to be going out of his way to make them that much harder.
Despite his protests that he was fine, Tamlin had allowed her to dose him with strong liquor and stitch up the deepest wounds when unconsciousness gripped him. The sutures had triggered his healing and later, Tamlin had taught her how to use her magic to clean: the daybed had been stained with his blood.
"Not this time," Tamlin told her. "I've business in Katra."
"What's that?"
"One of the two cities of the Spring Court," Tamlin sighed, yawning heavily. "On the west coast, close to the border with Summer."
"What's the other?"
"Fioren-Daara," Tamlin said, rubbing his face. "A two-hour ride from here in good weather."
"What do you have to do in Katra?" Nesta asked.
"I'm meeting with the Triumvar," Tamlin told her.
"And the Triumvar are the three Fae who govern each of the territories within the Spring Court?" Nesta prompted, and Tamlin nodded. "I can't find anything in the library about it."
Tamlin laughed softly. "You won't. I created the positions. One High Fae, to appease my nobility; a 'Lesser Fae'," he sneered at the term, crinkling his nose, "and a third Fae elected to the position."
Nesta had observed that Tamlin called all faeries 'Fae' except for the monstrous 'underfae' he hunted, who posed a danger to every living thing they met.
"Aren't they all elected?"
"No. I appoint two of the Triumvar personally," Tamlin said. "Their appointment is for life, unless they choose to resign it, or retire. The third Triumvar is elected by the people in their territory, and serve for sixty years."
"Why appoint two yet allow your Court to vote in the third?"
"In the past, the High Lord of Spring has always appointed a Small Council," Tamlin shrugged. "It was filled exclusively by grasping High Fae males who favoured nepotism over competence and true talent, and all of whom had their own agendas. I could not eradicate the traditions of the past overnight, so I came up with a compromise: the Triumvar. Instead of Small Council members, I created the Triumvar to govern my territories. Appointing a High Fae appeases the nobles. I appointed a 'lesser' Fae respected within their territories to ensure their interests are also promoted, and the third Triumvar is voted in to reflect who my people feel represents their best interests, who truly speaks for them. The Triumvar is carefully balanced so no one of them will ever be able to gain total control of their territories."
"So why do you have to go to Katra to meet the Triumvar?" Nesta asked, focusing on her stitches.
"The sixty-year tenure of the third Triumvar is due to end soon," Tamlin said. "At the Tithe, every mature Fae across the Spring Court will vote on their new representatives."
"Surely you should stay away?" Nesta frowned. "You wouldn't want to be seen to be influencing the votes any which way."
"It's not that," Tamlin said grumpily, looking tired.
"Then what?"
Tamlin paused, then frowned at her thoughtfully. "During the Occupation, Fae fled from across all Courts to find safety here. Those who reached the Spring Court made their way to the cities, where they would be more likely to find work. Many have decided to stay, rather than return to their former Courts. There have been whispers in Fioren-Daara and in Katra that those who fled their former Courts should not be allowed a vote."
"Why shouldn't they?"
"The fear is that they will cast their vote to benefit themselves then depart for their former Courts, leaving their chosen advocate in place," Tamlin said, scrunching a hand over his face. The scars along his jaw were turning white, fading before her eyes over days. Those wounds would have killed anyone else. She wondered if Tamlin could avoid them – wondered if he allowed himself to be hurt so often, and so brutally. Surely a soldier had had more stringent training than to allow himself to get so bloodied? "It wouldn't matter so much, except that we are rebuilding trade-routes with other Courts. The worry is that the Triumvar may be influenced to accept trade deals that benefit other Courts, rather than Spring craftsmen and producers."
"Aren't trade deals ultimately your decision?" Nesta asked.
"They are; that's why I'm going to Katra. To address the issue before it can tear Katra up from the inside out – the Fae who live there have worked too hard to make it what it is for distrust to ruin it," Tamlin said.
"Hm," Nesta frowned. "Angry mobs of riled-up Fae. I'll have the needle and thread ready to patch you up."
"Thank you for your confidence."
"What are you going to say to them?"
"I don't suppose many would respond to 'Stop being prejudiced dicks', would they?" Tamlin asked, and Nesta laughed softly.
"I'd lean away from insults," she advised. "Just tell them what you told me. Remind them what they should be proud of, rather than letting their fear destroy what they've built. That's more powerful than any flowery speech."
"I'm going to have to wear something lordly," Tamlin grumbled, crinkling his nose in a grimace. Nesta raised her eyebrows.
"Do you have anything 'lordly'?" she asked incredulously. She had never seen him in anything but his leather trousers and much-darned linen shirt, which needed to be dyed again after so many rough washes against whichever rocks Tamlin found nearest a water-source. He always kept his boots polished, at least, like a good shoulder ought, but more often than not his golden hair was tousled and rather unkempt.
"I have a few things," Tamlin said, almost defensively, then went still, his face guilty, and he grumbled, climbing off the daybed. "They're not pressed!"
"You'd better get the iron out," Nesta smirked. She heard him, striding through the ruined palace, muttering darkly to himself, and he returned a while later with a pair of tailored pale fawn-coloured trousers, a fine linen shirt and an icy green court jacket slung over his arm, a pair of fine knee-high boots in need of a polish in his other hand.
"You're missing a button on that shirt," Nesta observed from the daybed, as Tamlin went about pressing the trousers, turning them and the silk jacket inside out to press the insides, rather than risk ruining the expensive fabric.
"Oh for – " He bit off a curse with an aggravated sigh and ground his jaw, his eyes glinting with agitation.
"Hand it here," Nesta said, setting aside her own sewing. The palace had been raided of the fine textiles kept on site for the High Lord's personal couturiers, along with everything else, but Hybern's commanders hadn't cared to search below-stairs: at Nesta's somewhat reluctant request for a change of clothing, Tamlin had led her on a search through the storage-rooms and discovered bolts of high-quality linen, cotton and wool twill used for the maids' uniforms. Seamstresses had always been on Tamlin's staff to sew new garments for servants and repair existing ones so that everyone always appeared smart, their clothing well cared for. In the seamstress' workroom, Nesta had found paper for drafting patterns, muslin for mock-ups and a collection of fully-equipped sewing boxes. She often wondered whose she had claimed, and mourned the loss of her mother's.
She assessed the shirt and rummaged through her sewing-box as Tamlin carefully pressed his trousers and jacket. She had noticed that about him: despite the appearance of his palace, Tamlin took great care in everything he did, whether it was kneading bread or making cheesy omelettes for their breakfast or pressing his expensive silk court jacket. As if he had trained himself over many years to move slowly and considerately of others, aware of his enormous size and strength in comparison to everyone around him – he was an entire head taller than Nesta, and she had always been the tallest woman in the room – and took great care in everything he did, and of everything he owned, as if he understood and appreciated the work that went into them.
A soldier who sewed his own shirts could appreciate the hours of labour that went into a richly embroidered silk court jacket in a way no noble courtier ever could.
Nesta knew Tamlin had learned to bake bread, sew his own shirts, knit his own socks and darn his clothing as a soldier, and often they would sit on the daybed in the evening, enjoying the warmth of the fire while Tamlin mended his tired black linen shirts and Nesta worked on her wardrobe, building it piece by piece. In the time since Tamlin had been gone – which amounted to over a month – she had sewn herself a collection of linen smocks and a kirtle made of a very pretty, neutral lavender-taupe wool twill. To protect her kirtle while she baked and worked in the kitchen-gardens, she had sewn herself three pinafore aprons with cap shoulders and deep pockets out of cotton.
"No luck, I'm afraid," Nesta said, repacking everything into the sewing-box. "There isn't a button to match: I'll have to replace the lot."
"You don't have to do that," Tamlin said, glancing up from the ironing-board. "I can sew my own buttons."
"You're going to go and find a hairbrush," Nesta said firmly, "and polish for those boots." Tamlin's lips parted incredulously. "Go on: I'll have the buttons sewn on before you return."
Muttering about bossy women, Tamlin left the library, and once again Nesta heard him rummaging around in the darkness of the ruined palace. She smirked to herself, busying herself with a pair of snips to cut off the old buttons. They were expensive – mother-of-pearl – and she tucked them safely into her sewing-kit to reuse.
Tamlin spent much of his time away from his ruined palace yet whenever he returned, he always seemed somewhat startled that Nesta was still there. As if he had convinced himself she would not be. From those first days and first conversations, they had fallen into an easy sort of companionship. She noticed when he was looking wan, and he was always aware of her nightmares, awake and ready to reassure her when she ripped herself free from hideous memories that haunted her dreams. They looked after each other.
They both had a lot more bad days than good.
But Nesta had noticed that the good days were spent with Tamlin. And even her worst days now were nowhere near as debilitating as her bad days in Velaris. If she woke screaming from nightmares, she put on a pair of sturdy leather walking-boots and took herself off to the gardens. The crisp air and the nightsong soothed her in a way nothing else ever had. And whenever she returned to the palace – if he was not monster-hunting or arguing out Fae politics – Tamlin would be waiting in the softly-lit kitchen with a fresh pot of the tea he had noticed she favoured and toasted fruit buns slathered with melted butter.
His bad days were far worse than Nesta's. Or rather, his reaction to whatever trauma he had endured was far more intense. Nesta internalised most of hers: Tamlin seemed as if he had been fighting to do so for so long that it no longer worked, and everything was spilling out.
As she had promised, by the time Tamlin had managed to find a hairbrush and a tin of leather polish, Nesta had finished reattaching a new matched set of plain buttons to his shirt. She pressed it and left it with the trousers and jacket and Tamlin found her in the kitchen a little while later as she dished up their dinner.
One moment she was fine.
The next, she couldn't breathe. Her hands shook, her breaths like shards of ice in her lungs, the tang of copper coating her tongue and filling her senses.
"Nesta." Large hands rested on her shoulders, warm and gentle. As Tamlin's warmth and scent enveloped her, Nesta gasped and blinked hastily, her heartbeat hammering in her ears. Tears stung her eyes and she whimpered softly as the hearth wavered back into view, overwhelming the memories of battlefields strewn with body-parts and great halls smeared with wing membrane and cold blood and Tamlin in the courtyard, torn apart. Her hands shook and the dish she had been holding fell to the table with a clatter that sounded so like the clash of swords, she flinched and staggered away – backing into a solid, muscle-bound mass.
"Nesta," Tamlin said, more urgently, and Nesta's eyes widened as she turned to him, cringing. Enormous, warm hands rested on her shoulders, their weight grounding: they moved to cup her face, their warmth drawing her out of herself, focusing on the heat of his skin against hers, the callouses on his palms and silky smooth scars on his fingers against her skin as he stroked his thumbs along her jaw.
The weight of his hands, the heat of his skin, his scent, drew her out of her mind, out of her memories, drew her back to the moment, to him. To the scent of the rich ragu and the golden faelight and the gentle pattering of rain against the windows.
Nausea churned in her stomach, the taste of copper coating her tongue, but Tamlin's eyes were calm and patient as he gazed down at her, his expression filled with concern rather than the condemnation she was so used to.
"There you are," he said gently, a tight smile on his lips. "You're back." She reached out without thinking, gripping his wrist, as if desperate for an anchor, as she gasped for breath. "I'm not going anywhere," Tamlin murmured, resting his cheek against her hair, crowding her with his warmth, with his sturdy, steady presence. "Breathe for me… Breathe…" Coaxing and patient, Nesta obeyed him. She breathed.
It shouldn't have been so hard.
She was furious that breathing had become so difficult for her.
Tamlin guided her to the table and sat her down, and she reluctantly let go of his wrist. He quietly gathered the dishes and brought them to the table, though kept hers just out of her eyesight, as if aware something about it had set her off.
As she breathed, the scent of the rich venison ragu she had cooked over hours drifted idly to her nose, coaxing and decadent. Steam drifted from the plates and she focused on that, rather than anything else, even as Tamlin sat beside her, so close his thigh pressed against hers – as if he understood that she needed the grounding pressure to keep her tethered to the moment. As he poured them both a small glass of red wine, he reached out and rubbed his hand up and down her back, soothing and compassionate.
"What have you cooked?" Tamlin asked her gently.
She wiped her face furiously and sniffled. "Tagliatelle…and venison ragu," she said harshly, sniffing, and he nodded, reaching for his cutlery. He would have been content to eat with his hands and his bare fangs in the courtyard if she allowed it: Nesta insisted that when they were together, they would eat together, at the table, with proper cutlery and candles and a glass of wine.
She wanted to enjoy her meals again.
She had taken her measurements for her new chemises and was devastated and ashamed of how much weight she had truly lost.
When had she stopped caring about herself? She knew no-one else did… Perhaps she had hoped someone would notice and do something about it. And she had spiralled further into herself, into her grief and her hurt, when no-one did.
Tamlin had helped her take her measurements. He had noticed her humiliation at such drastic evidence of her own self-neglect. He had shrugged his shoulders and said, "You'll put it back on."
She had been working hard over the last few weeks to slowly start putting weight on, though it had started as a by-product of providing for the garudaie fledgling hiding in the hay. She had forced herself to think carefully about the ingredients and the spices she now had unfettered access to, everything she had once loved to eat or longed to bake but couldn't – meals with her parents that she still dreamed of to this day and memories of making pasta with Mama on the veranda – and planned ahead. She created menus and in doing so, forced Tamlin to think ahead and plan when he was going to be home. In providing regular meals – all of them hot, as the days continued to get colder and the nights even more so – Nesta had reignited her passion for cooking, for food.
They weren't just for Antares, of whom Nesta still had not had even the tiniest glimpse: Nesta had forced herself to start looking forward to her meals.
The more she looked forward to them, the more she took the time to sit and enjoy her meals, the more she ate. The more she thought about what to make next. The more she paid attention to what Tamlin truly enjoyed, and made a concerted effort to put those dishes into the menu rotation. When Tamlin wasn't around, Nesta treated herself, the same way she treated him: she cooked what she liked, and indulged in baking things she had always denied herself.
She had spent hours on the venison ragu, had whiled away the rainy afternoon calmly making fresh egg-pasta.
She had been looking forward to her dinner all day.
Now Nesta was furious, frustrated beyond belief. One glimpse of a ladleful of pasta twirled around a fork and presented on a fine bone-china dish and she had fallen apart.
Tamlin picked up his fork and twirled the long silky ribbons of pasta, the ragu clinging to it like a lover, and ate a mouthful. He groaned at the taste: she knew it would be rich, the venison allowed to simmer in luscious tomatoes and a stock of dried mushrooms and fine red wine for hours.
It was a deceptively simple meal, but the flavours made it more sumptuous than the offerings at any banquet table. She knew it: Nesta's ragu recipe was much sought after in the village – and fiercely kept secret.
"It's so rich," he moaned softly, twirling another forkful of pasta as if he had spent his life eating tagliatelle – as if Nesta hadn't had to teach him how to use his fork and spoon to twirl the ribbons. He gave her a sideways glance. "Do you want to tell me why it upset you?"
"It's…" She started, then shook her head fiercely. She refused to ruin Tamlin's meal by highlighting that the ribbons of pasta, twirled and drenched with wine-rich ragu…resembled the mess of skin and flesh and bone that soldiers became on the battlefield.
And why should she allow her meal to be ruined?
Why should she allow those memories – her scars – to have any power over her whatsoever? She was livid that after spending hours on the ragu, the pasta, hours spent savouring the very idea of her first mouthful, excited by the prospect of sharing the meal with Tamlin and enjoying whatever conversations they inevitably had over a shared bottle of red wine alongside their meal.
Wine no longer meant oblivion. It meant companionship and conversation – it meant the two of them, spending hours luxuriating in their evening meal, taking each course as it came: pasta dishes and spiced meat courses, bright and flavourful salads, little appetisers and decadent desserts, tiny sweet morsels to nibble on as they shared a small glass of digestif before the fire in the library, sewing or reading or relaxing in each other's company, quiet but content.
"I was doing better!" she exclaimed, hot tears streaming down her cheeks, and she shoved at them fiercely, hating the tremble of her lip and the way her nostrils quivered when she was upset and she was fuming. She sniffed, wiped her face roughly and blinked away the last of her tears, glaring at the dish of steaming tagliatelle and seized it, dragging it closer.
Defying the lingering taste of copper in her mouth, the churning nausea in her stomach, she twirled a forkful of pasta and ate it.
Closing her eyes, she focused only on the silky texture of the tagliatelle and the deep savoury flavour of the venison brought out by the heavy red wine and the earthy mushroom stock and tomatoes. The pasta was not swimming in sauce – only filled pasta should ever swim, and only in broth. It was…perfect. Perfectly simple and perfectly decadent.
She swallowed her mouthful and exhaled shortly. Defiance fizzled through her veins, a delicious warmth, the glow of stubbornness that had paid off. She had done it. Taken her first bite. Defied the memories that continued to torment her – she had refused to give in to them. Refused to let them take anything more from her. They had taken her sleep, her strength and her relationships – she refused to let them rear their ugly heads and steal what little she had managed to snatch back for herself, even if it was only a dish of pasta.
Nesta glanced over at Tamlin, who had been watching her carefully. She wiped her face and reached for her wine-glass. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder, rubbing her back, and it was a soothing gesture, almost congratulatory.
"Do you want to tell me?" he asked.
Nesta shook her head. "I don't want to let it ruin our meal," she said hoarsely. Tamlin watched her face carefully then nodded.
"Alright," he said quietly, topping off their wine-glasses, and together they finished their pasta. Tamlin seemed to have forgotten she was there; he ate his pasta with almost indecent enthusiasm. A smile twitched at the corners of her lips and Nesta found her relishing his appreciation. She realised how rare it was, to have someone appreciate her cooking.
"Would you teach me how to cook this?" Tamlin asked, and Nesta smiled. "And…the tagliatelle. Will you teach me how to make pasta?"
"Of course I will," Nesta said. "You like it that much?"
"I do. It's filling and versatile," Tamlin said, adding thoughtfully, "It would make an excellent meal for the soldiers in the army."
"You have a standing army?" Nesta asked curiously.
"Yes," Tamlin nodded.
"And you lead it?"
"Yes and no. Ultimately, I am the head of the army. My commanders lead on my behalf," Tamlin said quietly. "I am an excellent General, but I found that I could not be a General of the Army and a High Lord at the same time."
"So you chose to be the High Lord."
"It wasn't a choice," Tamlin said, shrugging. "It was my duty – to put my people first. I do far more for my people as High Lord than I ever could as a General of the Army."
"The Night Court has no standing army," Nesta observed.
"Rhysand commanded armies," Tamlin frowned.
"He didn't," Nesta sniffed. "The Illyrians commanded themselves; the Darkbringers followed Lord Keir's orders – and both joined Rhysand only after negotiating their involvement in the war. Rhysand has no armies of his own."
Tamlin looked surprised for a moment, then pulled a face and Nesta interpreted it as mirroring her own thoughts: that Rhysand was rather foolish for not establishing his own fighting force. He relied too heavily on those who had no loyalty to him. He could not always rely on his power – what happened in Hybern should have taught him that much.
"So why do you have a standing army?" Nesta asked.
"When I became High Lord, it was after a century serving in my father's army. I saw the truth of things… After I dismissed the Small Council and created the Triumvar, I worked with Spring's finest commanders and trainers to organise a standing army. Enlisting is an option for those from large families who cannot afford apprenticeships or provide farmland. It's an honourable profession and pays pensions to widowed partners and any offspring. It also curbs idleness among my nobility: they must earn an officer's position."
"You can always rely on the male ego to provoke competitiveness," Nesta said.
"I've found the females to be just as ambitious," Tamlin said fairly.
"You have females in your army?" Nesta stared. Her mind went back to a wind-blasted camp, to the sneers and virulent disdain she had felt oozing off every male she encountered, males who had looked at her with pure fear in their eyes and the word 'witch' on their lips.
"Of course," Tamlin said, staring at her. "The commanders in my army who are female are some of the most brilliant and creative strategists I've ever met. They can see all the pieces moving together, in a way some of my most seasoned male generals struggle to."
"How many females serve in the army?"
"Among the officers? Half of them are female, now," Tamlin said, and he smiled almost apologetically. "It took some time to get here, though. And at the last count, over a third of the enlisted soldiers are female – though their tenacity makes them more lethal than their male counterparts."
"They have more to prove."
"Many think so: the way I have organised the army is new," Tamlin shrugged, clearing away their empty plates. He topped off their wine. "It is unusual to invite females to join the army, especially as there is no need for them to fight."
"In the past, then, were females conscripted?"
"Only when the need was most dire," Tamlin nodded. Nesta frowned. "In my lifetime, and even my father's, there was never any such need."
"You said you served in your father's army for a century… That was the century after the Slaves' War," Nesta said, and Tamlin nodded, going still. She frowned. "Was there fighting after the war?"
"Yes," Tamlin said heavily. He glanced at Nesta. "You probably know my father fought alongside Hybern and the other rulers who wished to maintain human slavery. His pride never recovered from being forced to relinquish nearly a third of his Court, the land given over to the humans. He declared war on Nostrus and Beron, who had a hand in forming the treaty that declared where the Wall would fall – punishing my father for losing the war."
"I'm surprised Beron fought with the humans."
"Beron allied with the side he thought would win," Tamlin said quietly, "not because he has any moral qualms about human slavery whatsoever. After the Slaves' War ended, he got to determine the peace. Got to decide what Prythian would look like."
"Once the wall went up, we stopped thinking about the Fae," Nesta said softly. "Stopped thinking about the politics…"
"Well, the wall is down now," Tamlin sighed heavily. "Hard as it was for many to adjust to life without human slaves, it will be far trickier to coexist side-by-side without the benefit of the wall keeping everyone in check."
Nesta frowned at Tamlin. She remembered the meetings, the treaties. "Tamlin…"
"Mm?"
"Did they do the same to you?" she asked quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"After the war… The treaties, did they – Did the other High Lords use the treaties to punish you?" Nesta asked.
Tamlin smirked. "No. Only the Night Court remains wilfully ignorant of the truth of things during the war," he said, shrugging – but his easy smirk and that shrug did little to conceal the hard glint in his eyes. "I cannot say that the Night Court did not do their utmost to try and punish me and my Court, but the moment they suggested that Spring redraw borders to benefit human expansion and make financial reparations, the other High Lords put them in their places. Firmly."
"I'm surprised Rhysand let it go," Nesta said honestly. Tamlin pulled a face.
"I would wager he hasn't," he said simply.
"Rhysand wanted you to pay the humans?"
"It would have created an economic crisis that would have taken the Spring Court centuries, possibly millennia, to recover from," Tamlin said grimly. "I don't mind telling you that I would happily have murdered Rhysand before I ever let that happen. Nor would Helion or Thesan ever have allowed it."
"Why not?"
"Our economies are too closely intertwined here in Prythian," Tamlin said. "We trade with the continent but relationships have fragmented since the Slaves' War: the continental realms are still struggling to rebuild. Among the Courts, we enjoy free trade. But the last fifty years have put a strain on everything. If my Court succumbed, theirs would follow."
"So why would Rhysand ever suggest such a thing?"
"The same reason Feyre decided she wanted to destroy my Court," Tamlin said, a tightness in his features Nesta didn't like to see. They didn't often discuss Feyre but if she came up in conversation Tamlin would get a pinched look on his face, a shadow of despair in his eyes, as if he had given up – and couldn't forgive himself for it. "They make decisions based on emotion and refuse to look at the wider implications of their actions. The idea of punishing me was far too tempting an opportunity to pass up – thankfully, the other High Lords are far wiser – and aware of the truth of things."
"Are you going to tell me what that is?" Nesta asked, and Tamlin gazed steadily at her.
"Not tonight," he said quietly. Nesta nodded, allowing it. She was becoming more and more curious about many different things, and some topics she would press but others she didn't care to – not yet, anyway.
"If your armies aren't garrisoned here anymore," Nesta said, "then where are they?"
"Well, there are training facilities in every territory," Tamlin told her, and she understood he must believe the information was next to useless if he was sharing it with her. "But they are all garrisoned at the borders. Especially to the south."
"The human border?" Nesta prompted, and Tamlin nodded. "The Night Court believes you neglect to patrol the borders."
"Patrols are a waste of our resources," Tamlin said. Nesta frowned.
"I thought they're integral to scouting for potential problems."
"Usually, they are. But the border stretches over six hundred miles and it would be a strategic blunder to try and station patrols along the entirety of it," Tamlin said. "We would stretch ourselves too thin and be utterly ineffectual."
"So you're not patrolling the border."
"I have worked hard to ensure the faeries in my Court want for nothing," Tamlin said quietly, a soft undercurrent of something like defensiveness in his tone. "They have no need to cross the border. And I have forbidden any faeries from stepping foot on human soil until we can negotiate true terms between us."
"Why would they want to step foot in the human lands?" Nesta asked, "except to – well, to do exactly what every human fears faeries do?"
"When the wall was raised, my father's Court was split in two," Tamlin said quietly. "The faeries who made their homes in the southernmost third of the Court were forced to migrate north – or be lost… There are some who wish to return home." Nesta's lips parted. She had never thought of that. Tamlin shook his head, sighing. "Ultimately they have accepted that they may never return to their homes, have built communities here where they are happy… Sometimes, the idea of returning to their ancestral lands, only to discover what atrocities the humans may have committed to them… That is enough to keep them where they are."
"But some will want to go into the human lands," Nesta pressed.
"Yes. But the only faeries that would dare are the very worst, the ones who obey now laws but those of nature. They are the ones my armies are fully trained to hunt and exterminate as a threat to all, not just humans," Tamlin said. "We scour the Spring Court of underfae. The humans benefit by extension."
Nesta frowned, realising something. Her anger flared. "Your armies are hunting monsters?"
"Yes."
Her voice bit like a bear-trap. "Then why are you coming home bloody?"
Tamlin jumped. His eyes widened subtly and he dabbed his tongue over his lower-lip. "There are some underfae that only I can deal with."
"Neoptera?" she hissed. "Tracking a Druzkelaiae? What about the Rawraxxa you corralled and sent back to Tarquin? Are those underfae that only you can deal with or are you going out of your way to do the work your soldiers should be doing for you?"
Tamlin stared at her. "I – "
"Well?" she demanded, glaring at him. She could see that he was annoyed – and that he was thinking quickly.
"Yes, I do a greater share of the work in my territory that should fall to my soldiers," Tamlin admitted heatedly.
"What do you mean, your territory? The entire Court is your territory!" Nesta fumed. Those times he had returned home beaten to a pulp and slashed beyond recognition – why?!
"The Spring Court is divided into twelve territories, governed by the Triumvar and protected by the army bases there," Tamlin said fiercely, matching her agitation. "But the thirteenth territory, the centremost territory within this Court, from the northern border to the south, is my jurisdiction. I rule it directly. And the legions who should be stationed at the bases in my territory, I have commanded to the other territories to ease the strain. So yes – I must police the northern borders – the border we share with both the Summer and the Autumn Courts."
"Are your soldiers as poorly equipped as you?"
"What?" Tamlin snapped, taken aback.
"You take a sword and a dagger when you leave here," Nesta hissed. "Do you rely more on your magic than your weapons or are you trying to tempt fate?"
She remembered the day she had arrived. The pond rippling – and the kikimore appearing, thrashing, Tamlin hacking off its limbs… But he had been under the water. Nesta had seen how easily he had cleaved through the monster's limbs, how quickly he had despatched the foul thing, a single upcut to the base of the skull.
"You do – you are trying to tempt fate!" Nesta blurted angrily, and Tamlin flinched. "You want to be hurt – "
"I –" Tamlin broke off, flushed, his eyes wide – bewildered. He scowled at her but suddenly it seemed as if all the fire had burned out in him, the anger that made him seem twice as large evaporating, making him deflate. Eyes downcast, he murmured, "Before you arrived here, I could not spend more than a few hours in my Fae form." Her lips parted.
"Why?" she asked, surprised by the softness of her voice.
Tamlin's eyes glinted as he glanced up and held her gaze. "Because my emotions are…less when I am a beast," he said, so softly, so sadly that Nesta felt a tinge of heat in her cheeks, almost embarrassed to have railed at him. "When I am in that form, I have no need of weapons."
"You shouldn't be fighting alone," Nesta said stubbornly. She stood up straighter. "Surely it is more strategic to hunt as a group."
"Sometimes," Tamlin muttered. "Sometimes other people are a liability."
"And sometimes they save you from your own stupidity," Nesta said harshly, scowling. Tamlin's lips twitched, his eyes glinting. "Do you prevent others from joining you out of a desire to keep them safe or because you don't want anyone trying to keep you safe?"
Tamlin sighed, gazing back at her. "Perhaps both."
"Perhaps?"
"Definitely both," Tamlin said. Face burning with anger, Nesta shook her head, muttering under her breath.
"It was the neoptera, wasn't it?" Tamlin said quietly, and she glanced sharply at him.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about earlier," Tamlin said, his gentle but persistent. She froze. "When you had your funny turn…you saw the dish of pasta, and it set you off. I wondered why it upset you but your reaction just now, the neoptera were the first thing you mentioned. It's on your mind, still."
"You had been peeled like a potato!" Nesta exclaimed icily. "You resembled a Solstice gift someone let their cat shred!"
"That's flattering."
"The sight of your insides wasn't flattering," Nesta hissed. "Your sutures weren't flattering. The scent of your cooling blood soaking the daybed wasn't flattering. It wasn't flattering when I saw the floor strewn with Cassian's shredded wing-membrane, when I stitched up the soldiers' gaping wounds after battles, it wasn't –"
Her chest heaved and spots of light danced in her eyes, clouding her vision, making her dizzy. Suddenly, arms wrapped around her and Tamlin's heat, his scent, enveloped her. Tamlin had gathered her up in his arms, holding her close. Her eyes stung, her face flushed with anger and something else. She didn't know what to call it – the specific emotion that made her so upset to remember those things. Grief, perhaps? Lingering horror?
Tamlin sighed heavily, and she heard his heart beating against her ear as he tucked her head against his enormous chest. His voice rumbled gently as he promised her, "I'll take more care."
Miserable, Nesta hugged her arms loosely around his middle. She was not a hugger by nature, in fact most forms of physical contact annoyed her, and public displays of affection – well, she had never had anyone to share affection with publically, so it was moot. She disdained those who put on displays, but she also envied those who walked hand-in-hand with their lovers, or cuddled with their children so freely. She remembered cuddling with Mama but Father's study door had always been shut, and had remained so after Mama's death.
Even living in such close proximity in the cottage, her family were not physically close or affectionate by any means.
But hugging Tamlin – letting him tuck her into his enormous body – felt…good. Felt natural. She relaxed into him as she never allowed herself to relax. Perhaps because he understood. Because he saw her. And because he wasn't frightened of her seeing him. He didn't shy away from her, despise her for what she observed about him.
Perhaps he had been as starved for someone who genuinely cared and noticed that he was suffering as she was. Perhaps he needed the hug just as much as she realised she did.
Eventually, they let go.
She sniffed delicately and murmured miserably, her tone still somewhat stubborn, "If you can't avoid it, I don't want you to stay away, hurt, because you're afraid I'll be angry or that you'll set me off."
"Thank you, Nesta," Tamlin said earnestly.
"Just – don't be stupid," she blurted, scowling fiercely up at him. "There's no excuse for stupidity!"
Tamlin's twitched into a smirk, his eyes glinting. "I'll remember."
"Because stupid males don't get dessert," she threatened, and Tamlin's grin glittered in the faelight. It was so rare to see him grin: he looked so much younger. And she noticed then just how handsome he truly was. Sometimes she forgot: he was just Tamlin. But when he grinned like that, she remembered that he was a beautiful male.
"I'll remember that," he said, his voice rich, his smile warm.
She turned to the larder and retrieved the dessert she had prepared earlier: pears poached in honey, ginger and cinnamon syrup, served with mascarpone spiked with almond liqueur and crumbles of almond brittle.
As they savoured every spoonful, Nesta reflected on their conversation. They had gone from easy conversation to a vicious argument to gentle admonishment and teasing.
But there had been no threats, no rumble of power, no using magic to punish or overwhelm each other, no jibes and low blows, no hitting each other where it hurt the worst. She tried to imagine an argument with Rhysand fizzling out like this. Couldn't. He would have flexed his magic against her. He did strike at the weakest spots, where he knew he would draw blood. He always went in for the kill.
Tamlin didn't argue as if it was a fight to the death to have the last word. He had met her anger but they had also diffused each other.
And she didn't feel weaker for admitting that she worried for his safety.
He didn't make her feel small for showing compassion, the way Rhysand's favourites had so often made her feel miniscule when she showed the faintest whisper of concern for one of them… For Cassian. It had always felt like a fight. To not only allow herself to become as close as she dared with Cassian but to armour herself against the viciousness of that territorial bitch Morrigan, or wait for Rhysand to verbally flay her for daring to consider herself as worth anything to Cassian.
Tamlin didn't punish her for her emotions.
He didn't hold her prickly, demanding personality against her. She was what she was: she refused to change for anyone.
She just wished she could be appreciated for who she was. She wished people would see her for who she was.
Nesta was starting to hope that Tamlin did.
A.N.: To be honest, these two characters (and Lucien) deserve to have people in their lives who see them for who they really are and love and appreciate them just as they are.