A.N.: I like to imagine human Prythian is a republic in the way that Florence was once a Republic. I also imagine the culture is a mash-up of Georgian/Victorian culture and modern-day London or Paris, with elements of the last thousand years of European history mixed in and Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon-style politics. I like the idea that Prythian was the last human holdout during a global human world-war which Nesta's father's generation was born during, and which saw the destruction of a lot of the human king/queendoms, also that the humans had their own version of Shakespeare two hundred years before Nesta's birth who immortalised the earliest political figures after the War in plays, and that in Prythian, everyone is obsessed with Star Wars ballets, the tango and psychological thrillers.

A House of Flame and Flower

08

Disarray

"After serious consideration, I have decided to accompany you to Fioren-Daara."

"Have you, indeed?"

"I cannot recall the last time I heard a voice that was not yours," Nesta said, crinkling her nose thoughtfully as she stared at him.

"It's a perfectly decent voice," Tamlin said rather defensively, but his eyes glittered.

"Even so, I'd rather feast my ears upon other voices," she said, smirking. "Then I can go back to appreciating yours – and how infrequently I hear it." Tamlin wasn't one to prattle on just to fill the silence: they could sit in companionable silence or engage in hours-long conversations and be comfortable.

Tamlin grinned good-naturedly. His eyes sparkled with something like anticipation. "Do you mean it?"

"You asked me: I'd like to come," Nesta told him, sounding more certain than she felt.

"Good," Tamlin said, nodding slowly, watching her. He had a way of watching her that made her think he was listening to all the things she did not say. He was listening to her body language, to the way her voice sounded in contrast to the way she rubbed her thumbs and forefingers together, a habit she had subconsciously picked up from him, and which soothed the tension around her heart. "I'm glad. I'd hoped you'd join me, to help me make some decisions."

"Oh? About what – surely not an architect?" Nesta gasped, and Tamlin shot her a grumpy look.

"Don't speak to me about architects," he grumbled churlishly.

"Then you've decided to have your priceless objet d'art restored to their full glory?" Nesta pressed, glancing over the top of her book. She heard him sigh irritably.

After tripping over a broken bust the other day, Nesta had blown up at him. It was their first real argument: Nesta won. While she rested her ankle – only putting it on a little bit about just how much pain she felt – Tamlin had found a broom and started to sweep up the debris. After the third cup of tea and plate of treats he had brought her while she recuperated, grimacing guiltily at the sight of her elevated foot, she had decided that he had learned his lesson, sprung up from the daybed and taken up a second broom to assist him.

Ever since, they had spent any free time going from room to room, sweeping up the debris of shattered statues and ripped paintings. More arguments had ensued: Nesta was adamant that not only could the paintings, exquisite vases, furniture and statuettes be restored to their former glory but should be.

"I don't even know who she is!" Tamlin had shouted back, after she had railed at him for grabbing a slashed painting off the wall and adding it carelessly to a rubble-pile in the centre of the hall ready for burning. "What does it matter if her portrait is restored? And all those trinkets – gifts from courtiers or other High Lords and Ladies that my ancestors felt obliged to keep and put on display. They don't mean anything!"

"But they're beautiful!" Nesta had insisted heatedly, growing more and more frustrated. "You may find no value in them emotionally but they belong to you, whether you like it or not! You cannot tell me there are not detailed accounts of every single item in these halls, their provenance and monetary value?"

Tamlin exclaimed impatiently, his eyes flashing, "What do you want me to do with them?"

"They are part of your Court's history," Nesta fumed, aware she was panting from the heat of their argument. "Even if you don't care for them, others will appreciate their beauty."

"You appreciate what they could be," Tamlin said. "Perhaps I shall gift them all to you and they can become your problem. You can decide what has value and what isn't worth saving."

"Then I shall become disgustingly rich!" Nesta smirked. "Tamlin, you have vast fortunes lying here."

Tamlin stared inscrutably at her. "I always forget you're the daughter of a merchant-prince."

"I was raised to see the value in everything," Nesta said, raising her chin proudly. "If you do not care for them, put them in a museum so that others may derive pleasure from them!"

"A museum?" Tamlin blinked at her, his ire diffusing.

"Put them on display," Nesta said. "Offset the cost of restoration with entrance fees. That's what we do in Prythian."

"And people pay to come and see treasures like this?"

"Oh, absolutely," Nesta nodded. "As beautiful as they are, steeped in history… The provenance of the items only enriches the experience – especially if they are important items that were embroiled in intrigues and seductions and murders." Tamlin rolled his eyes. "Don't scoff – you cannot deny that people are obsessed with sex and conspiracy. What do you think your courtiers devote their time to?"

"Self-betterment," Tamlin said wryly, and Nesta laughed. He sighed and glanced from the rubble-heap to Nesta. "People would really be interested?"

"In Prythian, one of the museums boasts breath-taking jewels that belonged to a fabulously notorious Empress. She murdered as many as three of her six husbands and passed off her lover's offspring as legitimate," Nesta said, nodding firmly.

"Why would Prythian have a foreign monarch's jewels?" Tamlin asked curiously. Nesta blinked at him. Everyone knew – Her lips parted. Not everyone knew about the Great War, though it was such an intrinsic part of human culture that it had defined the modern world.

"About fifty years ago, there was a war – a terrible war… Every human nation was swept up in it," Nesta said, sighing sadly. "Our history had never seen the like, not since… Anyway, the war was triggered by and in turn triggered revolutions that overthrew the established monarchies and governments on the Continent. The Empress's descendants were…they were arrested and executed – all except the children, who were smuggled to Prythian, with the Imperial jewels. The Republic bought the jewels so that the children had a living. Now they're put on display in the greatest of our museums. Half the thrill of seeing them is imagining the lifestyles of the original owners of the jewels…how greatly their world differed from our own."

"Why is it that people romanticise tragedy?" Tamlin asked, sounding as if he was genuinely curious.

"It's the only way we can truly access it," Nesta said, thinking of the Slaves' Revolt and the Terror and all that came after it. A playwright had immortalised the earliest days of Prythian, from the Terror to the Dance and the Dawn: he had made the distant figures of the past flesh and blood once more, so much more than names in faded ink on a brittle page. Tamlin pulled a thoughtful face then began sweeping. After a few moments, he sighed.

"Very well, we shall do as you like," he said, glancing over at her. Nesta, glancing up from the discarded painting of a pretty-eyed female with froths of tawny curls and an elegant dark mauve silk gown, brightened.

"Really?"

"But you're going to have to find all the matching pieces," Tamlin smirked, and Nesta rolled her eyes, hiding her pleasure that he had conceded. Ever since, Nesta had spent an hour or two every day sweeping a new room and making an inventory of paintings and objet d'art that needed to be restored. In some cases, she did indeed have to source the matching pieces. When she found furniture that remained untouched she brought it to the library, slowly making their living-space more comfortable. Every time she moved a piece of furniture into the library, she thought of the Burrow with the green front-door and yearned for the cosiness she had felt even while nosing about the rooms. She wished she could move the stacks but dreaded Tamlin's playful little smirk when he suggested she inventory the entire library and send the books to be restored as well.

"I will be visiting the Atelier," Tamlin said now, and Nesta glanced up from her book. "But I shall invite the masters here to assess the work to be done, rather than transport everything to their workshops. They'll know best how to prioritise."

"And here I thought we'd be able to start making this place look tidy," Nesta sighed wistfully. The halls and rooms looked better for being swept and organised but the lack of care was tangible – a contrast to the Burrows.

Tamlin grumbled. "You're going to keep pestering me until I decide to do something about the palace, aren't you?"

"I would never," Nesta sniffed. She smirked: "I have no need to: your Triumvar will see the state of their High Lord's residence and be appalled."

"Not grand enough?"

"It is certainly a choice," Nesta said. "I'm sure they'll agree that your palace should be the physical manifestation of Spring's magnificence."

"I am the physical manifestation of Spring's magnificence," Tamlin said grimly, and Nesta pressed her lips together. A flick of her eyebrows betrayed her and Tamlin narrowed his eyes at her. "Watch it."

"I didn't say anything."

"You don't need to." Nesta smirked to herself. She returned to her book, frowning in annoyance: it was the twelfth book she had taken off the shelf and it had given even less insight than the last about the food-chains of common faeries. "Nesta?"

"Hm?" She scowled at the book and chucked it onto the daybed with the others, glancing up at Tamlin. His hair stood on end, a sure sign that he had been shoving his hands through it. She sighed and wandered over to him, casting her eye over the desk overloaded with paperwork Tamlin was sifting through.

"What's wrong?" she asked, and he sighed, slumping in his chair. He handed her a small pocket diary.

"Could you read out the appointments written down in there?" he asked, and Nesta nodded, using the ribbon to open the diary to the current page. Slowly, she read through Tamlin's notes, finding herself concerned that every hour over the next few days in Fioren-Daara had been accounted for almost to the minute. She read out the last entry but Tamlin still looked uncertain.

"You should have secretaries sifting through all this for you," Nesta said sternly, trailing her fingertips over a stack of papers.

"I sent them away," Tamlin grumbled, shifting uncomfortably on his chair. He barely caught her eye. She knew he had sent them away because, while hunting monsters in his bestial form, he had no need of secretaries to maintain his calendar.

"Well, call them back to their stations," Nesta said. "You're obviously struggling."

"I know where everything is!" Tamlin said defensively, lurching toward her when she threatened to tip over a large stack of letters, some of them still unopened. Nesta was fairly certain they had been there when she arrived. "I just can't recall if I've remembered all the appointments I've arranged."

"Must I truly bite my tongue at the inherent contradiction?" Nesta asked, and Tamlin glared at her.

He sighed, his shoulders drooping. Gazing up at her, he beseeched, "Will you help me?"

"This time, I will, but Tamlin, you must call your secretary back to help you," Nesta told him sternly. "They needn't live here but you do need someone to keep your calendar organised, now that you're…more active."

"That was diplomatic," Tamlin said, glancing up at her. "More active… Engaging in my duties as High Lord, you mean."

"I didn't say that: you did your duty as High Lord by protecting your Court from dangerous underfae," Nesta said sharply. Annoyed as she got by the state in which Tamlin returned from those hunts, she could acknowledge that they were necessary. She reached out and gently stroked Tamlin's hair until it settled neatly, falling almost to his shoulders in a sheet of glimmering wheat-gold. He leaned into her touch as if desperate for it: she knew he liked these little, innocent touches. She understood that they soothed him.

He glanced up at Nesta when she stopped stroking his hair. "I will send for him after we return from Fioren-Daara," he said, and at her dubious expression, insisted, "I swear it! I will." She eyed him shrewdly, and he gazed back at her, his face open and earnest.

"Go and put the kettle on," she told him gently. "You need a break before we tackle all of this."

"I just need you to – "

"Tea, Tamlin!" Nesta ordered, hands on her waist. "This paperwork has been collecting dust for months. We'll go through it – or run the risk that your secretary takes one look and seeks less hostile working conditions."

Tamlin grumbled, then grimaced and rubbed his face. "Where are they to work?"

"I think we'll manage to find space," Nesta said drily. "And a desk and perhaps a comfortable chair." She eyed the one Tamlin used: it lacked upholstery or cushioning of any kind, finely made but utilitarian and highly uncomfortable for long durations. As she had observed before, Tamlin went out of his way to deny himself simple comforts. He already hated sitting still indoors for hours on end: he forced himself to sit on an uncomfortable wooden chair at a desk he couldn't stretch his long legs under. He unfolded from the chair and slumped out of the library, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

Carrying the tea-tray back to the library, Tamlin found Nesta situated comfortably in her usual spot, cross-legged on the daybed with her skirts tucked neatly about her, propped up against embroidered cushions. She had dragged a low table near her and had already begun to organise his paperwork in neat piles. Nesta flicked her eyes from the letter in her hand and Tamlin almost jumped, her expression was so intense. She got that look in her eyes whenever she was hyper-focused on a task. He'd learned better than to approach her from behind when she was like that: she had a severe reaction to being startled.

"I've begun separating out your correspondence: social engagements, Triumvar business and unopened letters," Nesta said, brandishing the letter in her hand toward the largest of the three piles. She gave him a scathing look. "I can only assume you recognised the seals and didn't bother even to open these."

"Usually," Tamlin admitted, setting the tea-tray down on his now-tidy desk.

"Really, Tamlin, this is why you have secretaries – to send the cursory polite brush-off responses on your behalf," Nesta chided. "People will think you're being disrespectful."

"I'll remember that in future," he yawned widely, pouring two cups of tea. He could hear her clicking her tongue and sighing in irritation as she skim-read through his correspondence, organising the papers deftly and smiled to himself. He liked that she did not hide her impatience with him. The argument that had been triggered by Nesta tripping over a bust had set a precedent: they did not let things fester but addressed them head-on before they could become a huge problem.

He handed her a cup of tea, a delectable little macaron nestled precariously on the saucer. It was such a simple thing, but he looked forward to drinking a cup of tea with Nesta. He never knew where she would lead the conversation: it made his mind active, even while his body rested. He had not been called out to hunt for days, and was coming to relish the calm and the quiet.

Tamlin was starting to dread the idea of having to leave Nesta's company.

He didn't know what he'd do if Nesta ever expressed a desire to leave. Which was a stupid thought, he scolded himself, because of course she would eventually wish to leave! He was only setting himself up for bitter disappointment by believing anything else. Nesta was a fiercely independent female and from all Tamlin had seen so far, he knew she was wasted as his unofficial housekeeper. There was nothing she could not do. Her independent spirit was what he most admired about her: she was self-reliant, knew what she wanted and worked to find the ways to achieve those things. She was passionate and motivated and from that first moment in Hybern, Tamlin had always known Nesta was defiant.

She was not rebellious for the sake of it, as her sister was, like a petulant child, remaining standing because he had asked her to sit. Nesta had set clear boundaries to protect herself and resisted any attempt that threatened them, that put her in danger. She was far too shrewd not to know when that was happening. He had learned that Feyre and Rhysand considered Nesta vicious and out-of-control, wilful and disrespectful. From all Nesta had told him, Tamlin took that to mean that Rhysand considered Nesta a serious threat to his power. After what Nesta had shared with him, and from his own observations of Nesta's true character, Tamlin was fairly certain that Feyre and her new favourites had treated Nesta so viciously because Nesta refused to let anyone trample over the boundaries she had set to protect herself.

She had not spoken at length about what had transpired in the Night Court to prompt her to sever ties with her sisters but she had told him just enough. She said she felt she owed him that much.

From what Tamlin could surmise, the moment Feyre and her favourites had refused to respect Nesta's boundaries, Nesta had put up her defences. And the longer they kept assaulting those boundaries, the more fiercely she resisted. Rhysand had grown hostile toward her because could not benefit from her power either through threats or emotional manipulation and so considered her a threat. Rhysand and his people had turned on Nesta, successfully isolating her from anyone who might have objected to her mistreatment by convincing them that she was a villain.

Sadly, neither Feyre nor Elain were emotionally or intellectually mature enough to see what was truly happening and put a stop to it.

Tamlin would describe the Nesta he was coming to know as strong-willed, authoritative, hot-tempered and discerning. He appreciated her directness, and though he had first thought of her as magnificent and intimidating in Thesan's palace, addressing the High Lords with her shoulders thrown back, meeting their gazes unflinchingly, he now understood her a little better: she was magnificent and intimidating but Nesta also guarded her emotions fiercely. She needed to feel safe to indulge them in private.

And some small ember had sparked into life in his heart, a deep, burning ache of pride: Nesta indulged in her emotions here, with him.

Perhaps because he felt safe to do so with her.

Lucien often talked of reciprocity: offering something in exchange for something else, to the mutual benefit of those involved. It was what drove court politics, whether in Spring or Autumn or the Continent. You scratch my back…

He didn't think that offering Nesta sanctuary had anything to do with her feeling that she could be vulnerable here, though. He thought perhaps it was because Nesta had made it clear where he stood with her from the beginning, and vice versa: they had made sure that they both understood each other's boundaries, and respected them.

He respected who Nesta was.

Whatever people told Nesta she could not do, she set her mind to achieving. She seemed determined to prove them wrong. He wondered whether that stemmed from her family's loss of wealth and status. Perhaps someone had intimated that they were nothing without their wealth, could never be anything without it. But Nesta was capable, intuitive and passionate, defiant, fierce but shrewd. Nesta acknowledged her ignorance of his world and drove herself nearly to tears, frustrated by all she knew she had to learn and her inability to learn it overnight.

Though she was stubborn, she was by no means unwise.

It was more than her sister could boast.

Sometimes, Nesta's presence annoyed him. He could never tell her that: he worried she would take it as the first excuse to leave the palace. She was still skittish about making herself comfortable in his ruined home, still had to be encouraged to make it her own as much as it was his. Perhaps she was all too aware, as he was, that this was a ruined palace, the official residence of the High Lord – his status equal to that of a king anywhere else in the world.

Nesta didn't annoy him because of her behaviour or personality. He enjoyed her stern but kind and generous nature.

What got under his skin was the fact that Nesta's passionate, curious, wise, nurturing, fierce, no-nonsense nature highlighted just how immature her sister truly was by comparison.

And even if he could admit it to no-one else, he understood that feeling roiling in his gut when he thought of Feyre. Embarrassment. He reflected on her behaviour during her time in his court and was embarrassed for her, for her wilful ignorance and dangerous stubbornness. He was embarrassed for her, for believing herself so wily and brilliant and strategic that she could pull the wool over the eyes of a male five hundred years her senior. He was ashamed, too, that he had used her arrogance and inexperience against her. He, who considered himself a less-than-mediocre politician, had played her with ease. But then, she had not even been twenty years old, young even for humans. And after… She may have been altered in body, and the Mountain had left its scars, yet Feyre's nature had never truly changed. She remained as she had ever been: ignorant and self-absorbed, stubborn, arrogant and demanding.

Sometimes, Nesta would do or say something and he would be startled by how much she reminded him of Feyre. Not because they were alike in nature – quite the opposite – but because they shared some of the same mannerisms. Despite her complex feelings toward Nesta, it was clear that Feyre had been strongly influenced by Nesta as she grew out of childhood. Feyre had inherited her oldest sister's stubbornness but not her cleverness. And she had not had the benefit of an education the way Nesta so clearly had. Nesta had admitted to Tamlin that in the early days in the cottage, Feyre had refused to learn from Nesta, likely out of fear of looking stupid in front of her sister. Worse than remaining wilfully ignorant through a lack of education, Nesta had said, was that Feyre had grown up lacking any curiosity to learn, to evolve.

From what Tamlin knew of Feyre, he would agree with Nesta that Feyre lacked the skills to grow. In joining the Night Court, she had not matured: she had simply found people who indulged her.

Tamlin had not been foolish enough to indulge her. Powerful as Rhysand considered himself, Tamlin was startled that the High Lord of Night did not have the wisdom to do the same.

Tamlin liked that Nesta did not indulge him. He liked that she would tolerate his grumpiness only so long, and then she would either snap at him, telling him off, or coax him out of his mood with a cup of tea and something sweet. She was intuitive about him, could read him: she knew when she needed to be gentle and coaxing because he was feeling very tender, and when a sharp word was needed to snap him out of his darkest thoughts. He admired her when she told him off: he appreciated that she insisted on being treated well. And because she had set her boundaries, he found it easier to insist on his own. He could be grumpy and disagreeable but Nesta had her moments, too. When she was frustrated, she tended to snap. When she was exhausted, he knew better than to provoke her. When she was either of those things – frustrated, exhausted or overwhelmed – he had discovered that the best thing to do was gather her up in his arms and give her a hug. It was an intimate kind of physical comfort that he had experienced with no-one else, not ever. But he yearned for it, for physical touch that was gentle and loving. And Nesta seemed as starved for it as he felt. She softened in his arms in a way he rarely ever saw, gentling. He knew it was because he rarely saw her relaxed.

He thought perhaps because he respected her boundaries, she felt safe with him: she allowed herself to relax around him. She…trusted him.

Now, he watched her: her eyes flashed, brows drawn in an intense frown as she sifted through piles of paperwork.

"There seems to be something rather significant missing amidst all this correspondence," Nesta said, giving him an admonishing look he had not seen since his early days in the schoolroom.

"What have I forgotten?" he asked, grimacing. He knew he had forgotten something important. He had scheduled too many appointments for his visit to Fioren-Daara. But there was no other option: he had to get as many things organised now as possible. He knew he had left it too late already, would have to arrange for his appreciation to be shown. If not for Nesta's presence, though, he knew he would not have done anything at all. "What's missing?"

"There is a dearth of communication between you and the Republic," Nesta said.

"Oh," Tamlin grunted softly, feeling soft heat rising in his cheeks. "That would be because there has been none."

"None?" Nesta set the letter down and stared at him, her expression dangerously neutral.

"I don't believe the humans are in any hurry to send envoys here," Tamlin said. "And I will not send an envoy to the humans before there is a guarantee of their safety."

"You've had no communication with the human realm whatsoever?" Nesta gaped.

"I was supposed to meet with Lucien and Jurian a few months ago…" Tamlin shrugged, but was unable to meet her eye. A few months ago, he had been incapable of meeting with anyone.

"Lucien and Jurian?" Nesta repeated on a soft hiss. Her eyes glowed like silver embers. "What can they have to say about anything?"

"They are the humans' chosen representatives," Tamlin shrugged uncomfortably. Nesta scoffed, her eyes widening.

"Chosen by Rhysand," she sneered, her eyes flashing like lightning. "They do not represent the Republic." She frowned at Tamlin, not as if she was angry with him but was trying to work something out. Her tone gentled, and she asked, "What happened, Tamlin?"

"After the war, everything was left…rather up in the air. The treaties were signed by all the High Lords, to continue to respect the rights and freedoms of all humans who lived in Prythian," he said quietly. He had signed those treaties without hesitation. "But…as the only one among the High Lords to share borders with the human realm, I was left to establish relations with the humans… I need not explain how abysmally I've failed."

"You cannot have failed if you have not even begun the attempt," Nesta said softly, something like quiet triumph glinting in her eyes. He wondered why. He wondered why she wasn't scolding him.

"What's that look in your eye?" he asked curiously. Nesta glanced at him, a little startled. She smoothed out her features carefully.

"It would appear the Republic continues to govern itself as if the Wall still stood," Nesta said quietly. "I am concerned there has been no word from the borders, though. I would have expected…well… It will not go unnoticed that the borders are largely free of dangerous underfae."

"It was my hope that as long as the humans do not feel their safety is threatened, we could… I don't know, continue to live as we have, for as long as we need to recover," Tamlin said quietly. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I know it is naïve thinking."

"Yes," Nesta said, giving him an indulgent look. "You have devoted your energy to protecting the human border. As I said, it will not go unnoticed that the Fae are being kept in check by you. And by not making your presence known immediately, by not imposing yourself on the humans while they were at their most vulnerable, that has given them time to build confidence. They will make decisions with cool heads, rather than let fear dictate their course."

"Unless they stew in the dread that I plan to attack and conquer their lands," Tamlin said, and Nesta pulled a thoughtful face. "It's what I would fear."

"Always the general," Nesta said, with a soft smile, "forever anticipating the opposing army's next move. What does Lucien have to say about the attitude in the Republic towards the Spring Court?"

Tamlin cleared his throat awkwardly. "I have…been incapable of meeting with Lucien for many months. And besides that, I do not…"

"What?"

"I do not wish to put Lucien in an awkward position."

"Surely that comes with the territory, being a diplomat," Nesta said, eyeing him with a frown. "Anyway, did he not abandon his position in the Spring Court to, well…to accompany Feyre to the Night Court?" Tamlin was not fast enough to conceal the smirk on his lips. Nesta huffed irritably. "You played Feyre like a fiddle when she believed she was using you to destroy your own court – and Lucien?"

"We needed eyes and ears in the Night Court," Tamlin shrugged simply, and Nesta's eyes popped, her lips parting incredulously. "Lucien…is exceptional at playing the game. He knows how to make himself indispensable."

"Did he ever truly relinquish his loyalties to the Spring Court?" Nesta asked.

"No," Tamlin said lightly. Nesta frowned.

"Then… What happened last Solstice?" she asked, frowning, and Tamlin went still. "Wasn't there an altercation?"

"I had a… I was at one of my lowest points," Tamlin said hollowly, flinching as he recalled the last Winter Solstice. "When Lucien arrived here, he found me in the grips of my nightmares."

"He tried to wake you."

"But he had brought that red-haired human queen with him," Tamlin gulped, his body flushing with fury even as dread and regret curdled in his gut. Jurian had been there, also, from what little he recalled of that harrowing experience. "He ripped me from my memories but I saw her and could not distinguish –" He broke off, gulping, and was aware that his hand shook as he rubbed it over his face.

"You could not distinguish between Vassa and Amarantha," Nesta said, understanding heavy in her voice. She reached out her hand, splaying her long, elegant fingers over his heart: his heartbeat gentled. He pressed his hand over hers and closed his eyes, focusing only on his breathing, willing it to become less choppy, for breath to fill his lungs. Nesta's scent filled him. It soothed him as little else did. He had come to associate Nesta's scent with safety, with gentle touches and comfort, with nurturing and kindness. Every time he woke from nightmares, she was there, her gentle touches soothing him, her scent like an embrace. He was safe with her. He was safe.

With a gut-wrenching moan, Tamlin admitted, "Lucien just managed to prise me off her. He…brought me to my senses. When I became…lucid… I saw what I had done. I saw what I had done to him, what I had almost done to her. I sent everyone away after that."

"We know you sent his things to the manor-house he's staying in with them," Nesta said quietly. "Why not invite him to claim one of the Burrows if you did not want to risk him staying here?"

"He was curious about the human realm," Tamlin said quietly. "He's always been curious and adventurous. And he's been getting more and more restless for decades, stuck here."

"What other choice did he have, the last half-century?" Nesta asked fairly. "And before that…he wouldn't have stayed so long if he had not wished to."

"He's wasted here," Tamlin shrugged, deflecting. He did not like to linger on the wound that festered in Lucien's absence. Tamlin had pushed Lucien away to keep him safe from any violent backlash Tamlin suffered. He just wished… He wished Lucien hadn't let him push him away and that he had understood… He wished Lucien, who had spent centuries with him, had seen what Nesta had in mere weeks. He wished Lucien had understood that Tamlin needed help but didn't know what that was, that he desired nothing more for his people than to be safe – especially from him. He wished Lucien had seen the absolute agony he suffered without relief. He had pushed everyone away to keep them safe yet was so desperately alone it was unbearable.

"Do you know what he's been up to, in Prythian?" Nesta asked. She only ever used the term 'Prythian' to describe her home, the human realm, a place she described as a Republic. "Who he's been meeting with?"

"I have not seen him in months," Tamlin admitted gloomily, only heartened by the burst of rich chocolate from the macaron he bit into, savouring the textures and flavours as he chewed. He never failed to appreciate the macarons Nesta made. He could have demolished them in a single bite: he extended the experience by taking tiny bites and savouring every single one. Doing so now gave him time: he did not have to keep talking about Lucien. Nesta seemed to understand he didn't wish to speak about Lucien any longer: she let the topic drop.

Instead, they turned back to Tamlin's other correspondence. Thinking of Nesta's desire to learn more about the Fae world and her apparent interest in the Triumvar, Tamlin used the letters as prompts to open up discussions about some of the different Fae who made up the Triumvar – not just their names but also the species of Fae they belonged to and everything that made their species unique. They discussed how the socioeconomic foundations of the Seasonal and Celestial Courts had shifted over the last fifty years, due to the High Fae being confined to Amarantha's court. Amarantha had largely ignored anyone who was not High Fae with the exception of kidnapping them and forcing them to engage in her lethal entertainments. But for the most part, the Fae that Amarantha – and a great many High Fae across the Courts – had considered so far beneath her notice as to be no threat had flourished in the absence of the High Fae, filling the positions they had left vacant and finding they needed no High Fae to keep their society thriving. There had been much more social and economic mobility amongst the Fae because of the absence of the High Fae.

In many of the Courts, the sudden return of the High Fae had created social and economic chaos: the High Fae considered the new political strength and affluence of those they deemed their social inferiors as a direct threat. Too many High Fae remembered the Slaves' Revolt and the losses they had suffered because of it. In the Summer Court especially, the High Fae had returned only to impose their dominance over the other Fae with vicious brutality. Yet from what Tamlin understood, they had found that there was continued resistance. A single spark was enough to set the entire court ablaze. He did not envy Tarquin his position but hoped to be able to forge a relationship with his neighbour. Tamlin had been raised a soldier: Tarquin was a sailor. They were unique as High Lords went.

"They have failed to evolve," Tamlin sighed heavily.

"They're afraid. They cannot accept that the world does not need them to thrive: what place do they have in a world like that?" Nesta mused. "But far worse is the fact that the other Fae have learned that irrefutable truth and will no longer tolerate mistreatment. Has the Spring Court suffered?"

"No, but that's because of the Triumvar," Tamlin said, and Nesta's eyes glowed softly silver, the slightest smile winking at the corners of her lips. "When I became High Lord, I set out to establish a system of government that did its best to equalise all of the Fae in my court. When Amarantha came, my people had already learned how to work in collaboration with each other. More than that, they listened to my warnings: it gave us time to prepare for what I saw coming. I knew Amarantha would never dream that I would leave Lesser Fae to rule my lands on my behalf. Our people were not left vulnerable when the High Fae were forced Under the Mountain. The Triumvar continued to govern the Spring Court as we had all agreed. The High Fae resumed their positions once we were free, and we carried on as if nothing…as if nothing had happened."

But it had.

He was not the only one altered from their time Under the Mountain. He had learned of the extent of his courtiers' mistreatment at Amarantha's hands only after they were freed: Illidan had tried to downplay it to lessen the shame he knew Tamlin felt at leaving them vulnerable while he was… But Tamlin knew his people had suffered directly because of him, because of the game of wills Amarantha had insisted on playing – the game her curse, his stone heart, had given him the advantage in.

He was ashamed that he had caused his people pain. But the alternative… Withstanding Amarantha was all he had. It was the only chance they all had – within Spring and throughout Prythian. The moment she broke him, she would have lost all desire for him, all respect: his defiance titillated her, made him irresistible. The longer he resisted her, the better chance his people had of surviving. Had he given in, she would have massacred them in celebration, and to punish him: to keep the game going, she had let them live.

Altered but alive.

Nesta noticed the sudden shift in his mood and left him to stew while she organised his life. Occasionally, she would reach out and lay her hand on his arm or rub his back, a subtle reassurance that she was still there. With each of those gentle touches, she drew him back from his darkest thoughts. He gazed at her as she read. He couldn't help wonder why the Mother had chosen to favour him by sending Nesta into his life.

He had done little to deserve her. But he would never take her for granted.

"You're staring," she murmured, and Tamlin blinked, shifting.

"Was I?" he asked.

"You were somewhere else," she smiled softly. "Check your diary again: did you pencil in a meeting with the bank?"

"Hm? Yes," Tamlin nodded. "Why?"

"Oh, you've received a series of letters that become increasingly more urgent," Nesta said, waving one letter idly. "They're concerned about preparations for the Tithe."

Tamlin sighed heavily, annoyance skittering through his body. "I don't know why they get so worked up: it's the same every year."

"Mm. This year's a little different, though, isn't it?" Nesta said. "There's a letter here from someone called Arihant expressing his concern about including refugees from other Courts in the census."

"Shit," Tamlin swore, clapping a hand over his eyes. "I'd forgotten."

"We carry out a census every decade," Nesta mused. "When do you carry yours out?"

"Every century," Tamlin grumbled, "though I postponed for obvious reasons. Did I respond?"

"There's something scrawled illegibly here, I assume you wrote it."

"I'm a soldier not a calligrapher," Tamlin grumbled, taking Arihant's letter from her. Nesta chuckled. But even he grimaced at his handwriting as he glanced over the letter. He had to squint but relaxed when he realised he had annotated Arihant's letter with a note of having replied.

"Do you remember what you replied?"

"Refugees should absolutely be counted amongst our numbers," Tamlin said. "They're not likely to be going anywhere anytime soon. Arihant will say I've made Spring too welcoming."

"He dislikes the number of refugees coming in from other Courts?"

"It's not the number: Arihant's one of my nobles. He's very old-fashioned in his beliefs."

"You mean ignorant."

"Your words," Tamlin said, pulling a face. He sighed. "Arihant represents those who do not look upon my rule with pride. He thinks I'm a revolutionary and still hopes that I'll meet an early end that sets the Spring Court 'back to rights'."

"So why appoint him to the Triumvar?" Nesta asked curiously.

"He is the zeitgeist of the traditionalist High Fae in my Court," Tamlin sighed. "He is reliably vocal in his protests: but I would rather know the complaints of my nobility now than find out about them when there's a dagger in my back."

"You know, for someone who claims they aren't good at politics…you seem to have a deep appreciation for the way the game works," Nesta observed.

"The one good thing about being raised in my father's court: I can always sniff out the truth amidst the lies," Tamlin sighed wearily.

"What was it like?" Nesta asked quietly, and he flicked his gaze to her.

"What?"

"Your father's court," Nesta said.

Tamlin sighed heavily. "Lethal. Amarantha learned well from him."

"Did she spend time here?"

"Quite a lot," Tamlin said, and Nesta must have heard the tension in his voice. "She took my brother as a lover on occasion." He blinked, hard, and set down his teacup with a clatter before he could crush it. His hands shook and he fought to breathe again. Nesta reached out her foot and just gently rested it against his thigh as he sat, shuddering: the pressure and warmth drew him out of his memories. He had not thought of his brother – of them – in years…

"It's no wonder you're in no hurry to rebuild this palace," Nesta sighed, leaning her head back and gazing idly about the library. As he counted his breaths to slow his heartbeat, Nesta turned those silvery eyes on him. Her expression was gentle and thoughtful.

"I hate it," Tamlin admitted hollowly. Nesta adjusted her position on the daybed so she sat cuddled up beside him, pressed up against his side. Her heat and her scent washed over him and he started to relax again. "But it was also the place my mother and I lived happily for many years during the War. She is everywhere."

"That was the only good thing about the cottage, to begin with," Nesta said softly. "It wasn't haunted. It was what I could make of it, not a shadow of what Mama had once made it."

"I kept it exactly as she… Decorating the palace was all my father ever permitted her choice in," Tamlin said quietly. He never spoke about his family.

"You loved your mother," Nesta said quietly.

"Very much," Tamlin murmured miserably. "I miss her."

"I miss my mother," Nesta said softly. "I do not miss the home we had when we were a family. It was nothing without her… I think you know that without her, this place will never be the same as your memories. I don't think she'd mind, Tamlin," Nesta said quietly. "Changing it, I mean… I think a mother wants her children to be happy above all things. And you are not happy in this place as it is."

"It's all I have left of her," Tamlin said glumly.

"You are all that's left of her," Nesta said, "just as I am all that's left of…" She sighed, breaking off: she shook her head. She wasn't technically the last legacy of her mother. She had two sisters, after all. Yet Tamlin thought it said a great deal that Nesta did not consider her sisters as part of their mother's legacy. She said gently, "I think she'd want you to make this place yours. You've transformed the Court. Transforming the palace will be nothing to that."

"I've never… I have never known anything but this place," Tamlin said, gazing around the library. The ancient stacks, the mural with a bitter slash of black across the bottom. "I am who I am because of this place."

"But you are so much more than this palace," Nesta said warmly. "As I am more than the cottage, though it is in every fibre of my being."

"I don't… I'm not creative," Tamlin admitted. "And I do not even know what I would want this place to be… I dread wasting my Court's money."

After a long while, Nesta said, "You would be directly contributing to the economy of this Court. Think of all the craftspeople you must hire – and the apprentices they in turn must train, the workforce that must be taken on… With the unlimited resources at your disposal, it is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for architects and designers. If I were you, I would invite all of the architects in Prythian to tour the grounds and present their designs based on your criteria, then select the most imaginative and striking designs and ask the people behind them to collaborate together on something utterly unique. And as for not knowing what you want… What is the first thing you think of when you think of this place?"

"The gardens," Tamlin said, his mind spinning. How did Nesta manage to be both sensible and inspiring?

"You told me they are the one thing that keeps you here," Nesta said, and Tamlin nodded. She tilted her head thoughtfully, gazing at him. "You're always happier out-of-doors. I think you need the space as much as the fresh air, the freedom. Do the scents and sounds calm you?"

"They always have," Tamlin said. He had always preferred being out-of-doors. His earliest, happiest memories were of being in the gardens with his mother. They had always been the one refuge he and his mother were allowed, away from his father and brothers. He gazed at Nesta, focusing on the sweep of her eyelashes against her high cheekbones rather than on memories of his brothers. "Nesta?"

"Mm?"

"Are you interested in architecture and design?" he asked curiously. When she had arrived here, she had asked what his expectations were for her while she remained under his roof. What better way to make her content with a defined role and ensure he had as little to do with the reconstruction of the palace as possible than by putting Nesta in charge of it?

"I'm interested in a lot of things," Nesta said, shrugging delicately.

"If I asked you, if I turned over responsibility of designing and reconstructing the palace to you, would you accept it?" Tamlin asked.

Nesta gazed at him sombrely over the top of another letter. "I think you would be unwise to do that."

"Why? What you attempt, you conquer," Tamlin said. "Why should this be any different?"

"I wouldn't even know where to begin!" Nesta said. "And the stakes are far too high for me to try to muddle my way through the process and hope it all turns out."

"It's a building," Tamlin said.

"The most important one in this realm," Nesta said. She shook her head. "I have no knowledge about Fae architects or the resources available to a High Lord." He sighed, shoulders slumping. Curiously, Nesta asked, "The emotional connection aside, why don't you want to have anything to do with reconstructing the palace?"

"As you said…this palace is a statement of the magnificence of the Spring Court. It is the legacy of all High Lords and Ladies who will follow me," Tamlin said. "I don't want to be responsible for creating something they will come to be ashamed of."

"I think you've probably got a clearer idea of what you'd like this new palace to be than you realise," Nesta said thoughtfully. She swept her clear grey eyes over him, shrewd. "I would like to be involved. I am curious and I would like to learn."

"We should make a list of what you want to do and work through it," Tamlin said, with a sad smile. Nesta reciprocated, watching him thoughtfully.

"What about you?" she asked. "What are you interested in?"

Tamlin sighed heavily and fiddled with the handle of his teacup. What was he interested in? Fighting the heat rising in his cheeks as he came up short, Tamlin lifted his macaron and said, "Your baking."

Nesta did not laugh. She sat up and moved next to him, gazing at him. "Tamlin…please don't be upset by what I'm about to say," she said, and Tamlin went still, anticipating. Gently, Nesta said, "I think the Fae has become lost to the High Lord."

"I am High Lord of Spring," Tamlin said heavily. "That is the beginning and the end of all that I am. It is who I am."

"No…" Nesta said softly. "That is what you are. Who is Tamlin?"

Tamlin shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

Nesta stared at him, frowning sadly. "It matters to me."

A.N.: Notice that Tamlin gives credit to the success of the Spring Court to everyone but himself? I imagine he's a bit of a Queen Elizabeth II: putting everyone else first. Devoting his life to serving others.