A.N.: I've been watching a lot of Yellowstone and, aside from Kayce Dutton (Luke Grimes) being the love-child of Neslin, I truly believe Tamlin has the heart of a cowboy. Also Beth = Life. Her terrifying, brilliant nature, self-loathing and self-sabotaging, hiding how desperately in pain she is, hiding just how fiercely she loves Kayce and Rip, keeping even them at arm's length, her loyalty to her father conflicting with the hatred she has for the ranch. It's so purely Nesta! SJM really should've watched Yellowstone while trying to craft Silver Flames and taken some notes.

A House of Flame and Flower

12

Wild Beauty

Shivering, Nesta tucked her coat tighter around her and gazed out at the rainforest. The wind teased at her neat chignon and Pegasae whinnied and snorted as they beat tremendous wings to catch the air-currents, soaring through the air in flocks. The floating islands drifted over the golden rainforest, tethered in mid-air by some unknowable magic. There were hundreds of islands, some glimmering flower-speckled meadows of lush greenery, some towering, jagged mountain-ranges remnant of the mountain out of which Fioren-Daara had sprung, some with baffling waterfalls that disappeared into silver vapour that sparkled in the morning light streaming down. Some of the islands were tethered together with magic and with sinuous living bridges of liana vines and other magical plants she had never heard of and it was on one of those such islands that Nesta found herself, gazing out over an ocean of golden waves that glimmered in the breeze. Her stomach knotted with a flicker of anxiety at the sheer drop from the island to the tallest of the mellyrn trees – the heart tree, Nalleth had called it, a name that predated the Atelier by several millennia.

"It's something, isn't it?" one of the wranglers grunted softly. Nesta glanced away from the golden sea gleaming far below.

"It certainly is," Nesta agreed. The very concept of the floating islands themselves was fascinating: when the sinkhole had appeared in the mountain, some of the debris had remained stuck between land and sky. The islands were an extension of Fioren-Daara, dominated by winged Fae: there was no land in Fioren-Daara more expensive, more coveted, than one of the floating islands – purely because of the absence of obstacles to the sun. It was the most precious, most expensive commodity in the rainforest city. Like the forest floor far below, the islands had developed over time to suit the needs of those who lived there. Some were highly populated, flurries of activity that reminded Nesta of her beehives. Some islands were tiny and Tamlin had told her the names of his nobility who lived in the breath-taking palaces perched high above the mists generated by the rainforest itself. One of those nobles owned three islands, one which featured her grand palace and sumptuous gardens, one where her staff lived, and the third, the one on which Nesta had found herself just before dawn, was given over entirely to the care and breeding of winged horses.

The Pegasae breeds were more numerous and varied than regular horses: she was at first startled and then mesmerised by the variation in the winged horses. Some were breeds prized for show competitions: others were bred for speed and agility, for racing. Tamlin bred his Pegasae for both. Some of the winged-horses appeared more equine, others more avian in their looks – some had tail-feathers, others had manes; some had clawed feet while other breeds were hooved; some had the long faces of horses but more beaklike mouths; some even had horns. And there were many more variations in colour than horses – in that way, Pegasae resembled the endless variation in birds. Some reminded her of peacocks and secretary birds while others resembled bluejays, kingfishers and horned sungem, the emerald-green resplendent quetzal as well as ospreys, snowy owls and harpy eagles. Nesta took them all in, marvelling at their strange and unique beauty, listening out of the corner of her ear to Tamlin's conversation.

"What are we doing here?" she asked Tamlin quietly.

"Before the Occupation, I sent my Pegasae here to be stabled," Tamlin told her. He never mentioned Amarantha by name, only ever referred to her time in the Courts as the 'Occupation'. "Lady Lunia requested that rather than payment, I allow her to use my prized stallions as stud to her mares."

"She got the benefit in that deal," Nesta said. Her family hadn't owned horses since her childhood but she remembered her parents discussing when to breed their horses. Her mother had adored horses: they had been one of her passions. Nesta glanced at Tamlin and felt a pang in her chest, realising that her mother would have liked Tamlin. In fact, Nesta was coming to think her mother might have adored Tamlin.

"I know," Tamlin smiled.

"Why send them away when Amarantha came?" she asked.

"I knew how she worked. My Pegasae are living creatures…" Tamlin sighed. Living creatures could be hurt – and he could be ruined by their pain. "They're descended from Pegasae my mother bred. She had a passion for breeding and racing winged-horses. I didn't care about the jewels or the furniture; I made sure to send my horses to safety. They've been here since. I'm afraid Lady Lunia's become attached."

"They've been here since before the Occupation?" Nesta asked, bewildered.

"Magic flows through the veins of the Pegasae: they have much longer life-spans than horses," Tamlin told her.

"How long do they live?"

"Four or five centuries – longer if they're domesticated," Tamlin shrugged, and Nesta's eyebrows rose. "If they're left to their own devices in the wild, it's closer to three."

"Are any of your mother's horses still alive?"

"Yes. The mare over there, you see the one with the silver-tipped golden wings?" Tamlin said, pointing across the meadow to a herd of mares that seemed to have been fashioned from molten gold and silver. In the centre of the herd were foals with bright platinum manes and shimmering pearl hides, their wings glimmering with dull grey down. "See how she circles the foals? She's keeping them safe. All the other mares are watching her."

"Look at the stallion," Nesta sighed, impressed.

"Handsome, isn't it? But she's the one in charge," Tamlin grinned lazily. "She must've put him through hell to find his place in the herd."

"Which horses are yours?" Nesta asked. He could pinpoint exactly which horses belonged to him and was delighted by the foals he glimpsed amongst the herds of different Pegasae. Tamlin discussed with the stud master all the details of the pedigree of his horses, which now included a number of foals stumbling around on knobbly legs, their wings still covered in sparse down rather than the distinctive plumage of their parents.

"What happened there?" Tamlin asked, frowning and shielding his eyes from the sun, pointing across a meadow to a solitary foal in a paddock.

"Born that way, I'm afraid," the stud master sighed.

"The Mother gifted him those wings but made him lame," one of the groomers grunted. Tamlin frowned across the meadow at the foal. The same size as the other foals Nesta had seen, this one's wings already shone with beautiful plumage – they were massive and extraordinarily beautiful, their plumage vibrant like a songbird's, blending seamlessly from blood-red to midnight black. The Pegasus foal's face was black and marked with two bright white spots beneath its eyes: it reminded her of a silver-beaked tanager.

Tamlin's gaze rested on the foal's lame front-leg, and he frowned.

"Should send it to slaughter," grunted the groomer.

Nesta stilled and glanced at the groomer, feeling tension starting to coil in her muscles. Icily, she asked, "Is it sick?"

"No. Won't live long with that leg."

"It knows how to use its wings to compensate," Tamlin muttered thoughtfully, watching the foal flutter its wings as it stumbled a few tentative steps.

"If it's already learned how to adapt to its needs, it'll thrive," Nesta said quietly. "Where is its mother?"

"She rejected him." The stud master sighed, shaking his head. "After ten foals and a magnificent stud, he should've been the finest she ever made."

"By those wings, I'd say he still is," Nesta muttered to herself, watching the foal.

"He's your horse," the stud master said to Tamlin. "What do you want us to do with him?"

"If he can fly, he can thrive," Tamlin said, still watching the foal. "I'll never put down a horse with as much potential as I see in those wings, even if he does have a lame leg… I'd say send him to the Gardens but that'll do him no favours in the long-run. If he survives the herd, he'll make a powerful stallion."

"You want us to let nature take its course?" the stud master asked, and Tamlin nodded.

"Let him grow a little more," Tamlin said. "At least give him a chance. But he may surprise us… In her last letter, Lady Lunia mentioned she wanted me to see a new mare."

"Captured wild out in the mountains," the stud master said, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. They followed him to one of the barns. Nesta glimpsed more stables, flickers of fiery manes and snow-white horses with feathered tails like an albino peacock. They heard the mare before they saw her: the angry whinnying and the kicks that shook the fence of her paddock.

"Wow," Tamlin sighed in awe. A solitary mare whinnied and bucked, tremendous wings flapping agitatedly. Nesta stilled beside Tamlin then felt herself drawn to the fence of the paddock, awed: she was magnificent. Nesta's heart sang with familiarity. The mare was a gorgeous mottled dark-grey and silver, with black legs and purest silver touching at her hooves and around her thickly-lashed silver eyes. She had a mane and tail of pure silver fire. Her tremendous black feathery wings were of smoke and shadow that seemed to glint with sparks of silver embers with every movement, as if the feathers were the last thing to withstand the fire burning within. When she caught their scent, the mare whinnied and picked up her kicking with renewed vigour, bucking and flapping her wings, careening around the paddock, snapping her beaked nose with enough force to shatter bone.

"We've had to keep her inside to stop her flying off," the groomer grunted, eyes narrowing at the mare as she flapped her glorious wings, kicking her hind legs with enough force to level buildings.

"She's made it her life's work to try and kick her way out of this barn," the stud master said, with a touch of pride in his voice as he gazed at her.

"You mean, to get her freedom back," Nesta muttered darkly. Wild horses were protected in Prythian. It was against the law to capture wild horses: they were a guarantee against an ever-smaller breeding pool amongst pedigree horses. Horse-breeders could put broodmares out in the meadows where they knew wild stallions were close, and encourage the stallions to breed, to introduce new blood, but they had to then move the stallion away from the herd so that the broodmares could return home to foal and the stallions found new herds out in the wild.

"She doesn't want to take the saddle," Nesta said, glancing over at the mare.

"No. But she will, once she's broken," the groomer muttered, a harsh tone in his voice. Nesta bristled.

"That is such a male mentality," she sneered at the groomer. The way he spoke of breaking the horse… "Anything that defies you and threatens your ego must be destroyed."

"Ego's got nothing to do with it," said the groomer. Tamlin exchanged a glance with the stud master as Nesta squared off against the groomer. Nesta scoffed. "If we can't break her of that fire, we can't breed on her. If we can't breed on her, we can't make a profit: she'll be sent to slaughter."

"You'll murder this magnificent creature because she refuses to be dominated by you," Nesta snarled. She glared at the groomer, her respect for him dwindling by the heartbeat. "Destroy that fire and you'll have destroyed the thing that made her so extraordinary. That fire is her instincts. Break her and she won't survive. She won't want to… She was born free; you want to kill her because she refuses to be enslaved."

The groomer sneered but had no response. Not to Nesta, not with anger simmering in her silver-grey eyes, not with the cutting, disdainful sneer that had reduced greater men to shells of their former selves. He scoffed, spit and swaggered off as if he wasn't riled just by the sneer on her face.

As if the mare could sense the groomer's departure, she gentled. Wings folded along her back, the mare snorted and calmed, tossing her mane once. She stilled and glanced over at them with cunning silver eyes that settled on Nesta. That yearning pang of recognition tugged at her heart again and Nesta approached the paddock fence as Tamlin and the stud master hung back, murmuring quietly to each other and pretending not to watch Nesta as she approached the fence. The mare watched her for a long while before flicking her tail of silver fire and slowly approaching. Snorting gently, the mare approached: Nesta offered her hand, palm up, and gazed on sadly as the mare nuzzled her palm.

Though the groomer had in no way resembled Rhysand, she bristled at the thought of him as if her brother-by-law stood amongst them. The groomer's attitude toward the mare hit far too close. Rage and defiance made her blood sing and she felt such sorrow for this mare, trapped by males who wanted to remake her into something they found acceptable, something broken and subservient – something less than what she was always meant to be. Nesta stroked the mare's nose, communing silently with her, speaking of her sorrow and grief, of her own fire and fight. The mare gentled and let Nesta stroke her nose, poking her head over the fence to nuzzle Nesta's ear.

The mare's thick black eyelashes fluttered and she snorted, whickering and pulling away: she trotted around the paddock, more calmly than she had before but clearly agitated.

"Helion would love her," a voice muttered gently. Nesta sighed, watching the mare, as Tamlin folded his arms loosely on the fence. "He loves his horses with fire."

"You cannot give her away," Nesta said icily, clenching her jaw. It was too much. Too familiar. And she was still far too raw not to feel it.

She was too wild, too full of fire, too wilful – too sure of herself and her place in the world. She had refused to let herself be dominated… Nesta and the mare were one and the same. Rhysand had despised her as a threat to his power and wanted to kill her to kill the feelings of inadequacy she inspired in him. Kill her, kill the feeling of powerlessness. Kill her and be assured of his own strength of will once again. The same way the groomer felt his maleness threatened by this mare's defiance, as if he had anything to do with it: it was instinct. It was pure survival. Nesta had identified a threat and treated Rhysand and his favourites accordingly, refusing to ever be overwhelmed by them. They were the storm; she had stood in defiance of it. She may be battered and broken in places but fundamentally she remained uncompromised. She knew who she was, and what she stood for, what she would tolerate. This mare was the same: she had identified the threat and would fight with all she had. She would die for her freedom – for the freedom to be herself, as nature had fashioned her, the only way she could be if she wished to survive.

"Don't break her," Nesta said quietly. She glanced at Tamlin and he froze as she snared his gaze. Power thrummed from her, quiet and insistent: he had felt her agitation since they first sensed the mare, had tasted her fury when the groomer foolishly spoke out of turn.

"It's a crying shame not to breed on her," Tamlin sighed, gazing at the mare. "She's magnificent."

"She's only powerful because she's free to be what she was born to be," Nesta said firmly. "She'll never produce any offspring worth having if you break her."

"I know," Tamlin said quietly.

"You can't have it both ways," Nesta said, wincing at the tightness in her throat. "You can't have her fierce and magnificent and submissive."

Tamlin smiled sadly. "I know," he sighed. They watched the mare.

"That groomer will enjoy breaking her," Nesta said sharply. "He has no respect for her as she is: and he'll respect her even less for breaking. He'll treat her even more poorly for submitting to his will than he does for defying him." She turned to Tamlin, asking bluntly, "Is your business here finished?"

Tamlin sighed. After a long moment, he nodded. "It is."

The stud was the last of Tamlin's scheduled appointments. If he had any other things he had needed or wanted to do, Tamlin kept them to himself; he could feel Nesta's emotions, barbed and dangerous, agitated by the groomer and slowly spiralling the more she remained inside her own head.

They had had a wonderful time in Fioren-Daara: Tamlin couldn't remember ever having a better time, and he knew it was because he had shared the city he so loved with Nesta. Usually so closed off, something about the city had coaxed Nesta out of her shell: her awe was a wonder in and of itself – the fact that she showed it so unabashedly. He didn't want to flatter himself by thinking he had anything to do with her openness…but he didn't think it was a coincidence that she only seemed to relax around him. Perhaps she even trusted him. They had such clear boundaries and each respected them.

The mare hadn't violated any of those boundaries but even though Nesta tried to hide it, Tamlin could taste how upset she was by it. The air around her tasted like the sky during a storm, crackling with lightning and smoke. Her eyes glimmered with silver embers, slumbering but ready to spark alight. He had noticed her clenched fists and the way her back went ramrod straight – her posture was impeccable, and only got more so the more upset she was. Her reaction to emotional discomfort was to become as aloof and unapproachable as possible – to give her words as sharp a sting as she could, the poison forcing her enemy to skulk away and lick their wounds.

He dreaded the day she unleashed that sharp tongue on him; knew he would deserve it if she ever did.

No matter what she was feeling in that moment, it heartened him that when he reached for her hand to winnow away with her, she allowed it. And when they reappeared in the icy kitchen gardens, she didn't immediately pull her hand away.

He sighed with relief as they entered the kitchen. Her back still ramrod straight, Nesta bustled about making a pot of tea. He noticed the shift in her immediately when they entered the library, a laden tea-tray hovering before them. He could taste the tang in the air, reached out with his magic to support the tea-tray as Nesta's heart stuttered.

Something about the sight of all their parcels and bags gathered in one rather impressive collection by the hearth pushed Nesta over the edge she had been teetering precariously near since the mare.

He groaned and dropped onto the squashy sofa they had recovered from another room, kicking up his boot on the upholstered ottoman that featured a large tray laden with books, letters and faelights. Nesta perched primly on the edge of the daybed, her expression stark as she avoided looking at the parcels and bags before the hearth, as if they would turn her to stone if she dared set her gaze upon them.

"Do you want to know why I love going to Fioren-Daara so much?" Tamlin asked, closing his eyes and enjoying the comfort of the armchair, putting his feet up.

"Tell me," Nesta said quietly. Tamlin sighed and peeked over at her, smiling tiredly.

"Because after the day is done, it so nice to be home," he sighed, not bothering to stifle a yawn. He hadn't slept: he had roused Nesta before dawn to go to the stud. She smiled faintly but it didn't reach her eyes, which remained hollow. He turned his gaze to the hearth, where their purchases – the majority his – spilled over the carpet. Now he had to find somewhere to put them. His new clothes had been boxed neatly and the gleaming labels reminded him… "Don't think I've forgotten about the dress."

"I don't need a new fucking dress, Tamlin!" Nesta hissed, so sharply and so loudly that Tamlin jerked in his seat. He stared at her, open-mouthed. He noticed her fingers trembling as she raised them to cover her eyes. Her back ramrod straight, her fingers trembling, Tamlin watched Nesta warring against herself, trying to fold all that emotion away somewhere safe and sound where only she could be wounded by it. After a long while, Nesta emerged. Her eyes were bright with anger, regret and frustration: her usually lush lips were pale and tight, pulling her cheekbones into further relief.

Almost to herself, she whispered hoarsely, "Damn it. That horse…"

Tamlin sat up, gazing at her. Carefully, he said, "I know we were never talking about breaking the mare, Nesta."

She went still but didn't look at Tamlin. In her lap, her fingers twisted in knots. She looked pale and ill despite the sun she had caught this morning, the tips of her ears flushed and her delicate freckles winking at him from the bridge of her nose. It was utterly out of character for the composed, self-contained Nesta to freckle; he found the rebellion utterly charming.

When Nesta spoke, her voice was hoarse with emotion. Her expression was faraway and agonised. "She has wings but she's trapped. She's utterly vulnerable to people who have no respect for her, no understanding of who she is… She knows she has wings… I didn't," she said, sniffing delicately. Finally, she raised her eyes and focused on him. "But I'm the one who is free. He hated me the moment he met me. He has felt threatened by me ever since Hybern. He couldn't break me; he can never use me. He'd happily kill me rather than allow me to live, my very existence wounding his pride." She closed her eyes and Tamlin was surprised that no tears fell; her eyes shone with them. But she was not a woman who cried in pain: she cried in fury. Her shoulders slumped and Tamlin felt the tension, the anger, pour from her, leaving her exhausted, hollow. She gazed at him balefully and said hoarsely, "I'm sorry… Of all the people I've met since I clawed my way out of the Cauldron, you're the only one who's never looked at me with fear and revulsion."

Tamlin sighed and beckoned her over to him, patting the seat-cushion beside him. Miserable, Nesta rose from the daybed and came to settle beside him on the sofa, cuddling up close. He tucked an arm around her, sighing heavily as he rested his chin on top of her head. He tugged a blanket over them and felt Nesta relaxing against him.

Quietly, he promised her, "I will never punish you for what you've survived."

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," she said softly.

"I know," Tamlin said.

Hoarsely, Nesta whispered, "Don't let them break her."

He squeezed her tenderly. "I had them release her back into the mountains." Nesta didn't say anything; but she relaxed against him, sharing their warmth beneath the blanket. He used magic to pour their tea and they sat, cradling their teacups to keep the chill from nipping at their fingers as the fire grew, spreading its warmth throughout the library, which had become bitter in its abandonment.

He could get used to Nesta cuddling up with him. He knew he was far too accustomed to the scent of her – the tang of the sky after a storm, her magic, mingling intoxicatingly with the rich scent of camellias and figs and vanilla. Something about their time in Fioren-Daara had melted a wall between them, coaxed a physical intimacy between them that Tamlin hadn't realised he craved.

"Tamlin…when did you realise?" she asked quietly. He roused from a doze and glanced at her.

"What?" he grunted softly.

"When did you realise that Feyre was trying to manipulate you?" she asked quietly.

He sighed heavily, rubbing her shoulder. "The moment she walked into my arms in Hybern." Nesta frowned and glanced at him: he explained, "She turned her back on you when you were at your most vulnerable…" Nesta blinked several times, a faint line appearing between her neat eyebrows. He admitted to her, "It wasn't that I knew she was going to try to manipulate me; I understood that their hold over her was too strong for me to ever break it…" He gazed grimly at Nesta, regret thick in his voice when he said, "I should have cast her back to Rhysand and taken you and Elain instead. Kept you safe from them."

Nesta gave him a miserable smile that did not touch her eyes. "The damage was already done."

"From what I've seen, not the worst of it," Tamlin said darkly. Nesta went still but did not shove her way out of his arms. He sighed, catching her eye. "The Cauldron altered what you are. Seems like they did far worse: they tried to strip you of everything that makes you who you are."

"They tried…" Nesta said, her chin rising. "Most people would assume they'd succeed."

"Most people don't know you could see through a High Lord's glamour," Tamlin said softly. "It's a unique person that has that sort of mental strength… You must be one of the strongest people I have ever met."

"I don't feel strong," Nesta said quietly. Her voice sounded smaller than Tamlin had ever heard it: the mare had affected her more than he had thought. "I feel tired."

Tamlin smiled softly. "That's because you're paying attention; the world is exhausting. But sometimes…sometimes we get days like yesterday. Rare moments of joy that ease the burden just enough for things to be bearable."

"We need more of those moments," Nesta mumbled.

"This is one." He didn't mean to say it but he did mean it. Cuddling and sharing a cup of tea with her was a quiet moment of peace that he would savour more than he cared to admit. Nesta raised sad grey eyes to his face.

"The fire burned itself out, Tamlin," she said softly. Tamlin glanced at the hearth: he had lit the fire the moment they entered the library to chase away the cold.

"I know."

Nesta sighed and muttered grimly, "He didn't come inside."

He knew she meant Antares. She had left the fire burning merrily in the hearth in the hopes that the fledgling would come inside in their absence to benefit from the warmth. He rubbed her shoulder comfortingly. He reached up and tucked a lock of Nesta's warm caramel-chestnut hair behind her ear, the firelight picking out the gold and copper lights in it. He thought her hair was beautiful – incredibly thick and very lustrous with those natural lights glinting in it. It was the first thing he had started to notice, more than her putting weight back on: it was her hair, beginning to shine with health, its lustre returning. Her hair was always immaculate. He was fascinated by watching her put her hair up every morning, from the single thick braid she wore in bed, her fingers working her hair into neat, beautiful styles. She never used a mirror; he couldn't recall her ever actually gazing into one. She dressed her hair by touch alone, wearing unfussy styles that were timelessly elegant and balanced her profile beautifully. No fussy braids and curls for her, no pins or ribbons. She knew what she liked and what looked beautiful on her. He had watched her this morning by the fireside as he and Nalleth prepared breakfast – bacon and scrambled-eggs and potato cakes – as she dressed her hair, captivated by her sure movements, her talented fingers.

He didn't think she'd even realised she was sat beside the fire as it snapped and crackled. She had dressed her hair while he and Nalleth cooked and they had shared their breakfast enjoying the warmth of the fire. She hadn't flinched even once, hadn't edged away from the flames. And he hadn't drawn her attention to the fact that she had both spent hours on open water and sat beside the fire without triggering any ill-effects. He wasn't going to mention it – but he had noticed. He had noticed and was proud of her.

"He will," he sighed heavily. In many ways, Nesta and Antares were alike. Nesta's hair had started to shine as soon as she started getting healthier. Antares' plumage had started to grow in mere weeks after he had found himself under Tamlin's protection. His wings had been almost bare from stress, his skin raw and incredibly painful. "When he's ready, he will."

"It's getting colder," Nesta said quietly. "He should be inside where it's warm."

"He's not ready yet," Tamlin said quietly. "He's been taught to believe he's unworthy even to enter under my roof. It took weeks to get him into the stables."

"It's not healthy for him to be out there alone," Nesta said quietly. "He needs company. He needs to learn that not everyone will hurt him."

"He's learning," Tamlin said gently. He could tell by the sound of her voice that Nesta was hurt that Antares remained distant, even if she didn't want to admit it. "That kind of trust takes time to build."

"If I hadn't been here, would he have come inside by now?" Nesta asked.

"Don't do that," Tamlin chided her, frowning. "You're not stopping him from healing, Nesta… You should hear him talk about you."

"He talks to you?" Nesta asked, gazing earnestly at Tamlin.

"Sometimes," he shrugged.

"What does he say?" Nesta asked almost breathlessly. The yearning on her face – Tamlin could see just how much it bothered her that she had yet to even glimpse the Garudaie fledgling, how concerned she was for a child she had never even seen.

"He is amazed that I let you boss me around," he said, and Nesta rolled her eyes. He smiled. "He says I'm stronger since you came here… He says you're beautiful."

Nesta blinked. "He's never seen me."

"He's seen you," Tamlin said, smiling softly. "You've a shadow even if you've not known it."

"How can he have seen me if I haven't even caught a glimpse of him?" Nesta frowned almost indignantly.

Tamlin shrugged. "He's a Garudaie. They're exceptional hunters: he's learned how to silently stalk without even realising what he's doing."

"Oh, does that make me prey in this scenario?"

"In no scenario are you anything but the predator, Nesta Archeron," Tamlin said, smirking, and Nesta swatted at him half-heartedly.

"What does he look like?"

"Like most Garudaie." Nesta gave him a sour look and he chuckled. "The Garudaie are said to resemble the Brahminy kite. As an adult, he'll have incredible brown plumage on his wings and a rounded tail-fan."

"He doesn't now?"

"He's a juvenile," Tamlin said quietly, "and besides that, his body has been through too much… When I met him, he had no feathers at all: his wings were red raw, with a few pathetic tufts of down." A muscle ticked in Nesta's jaw.

"But his feathers are growing in?" she prompted worriedly, and Tamlin nodded.

"They are," he said. "His wings are almost completely feathered now."

"Almost?"

"He'll never grow feathers where the scarring is too severe," Tamlin said quietly. Nesta glanced at him sharply and Tamlin gave her a grim look. She gradually relaxed against him, obviously thinking: she sipped her tea and he rested his head back, lulled by her warmth and her scent. It had been a straining day and a very long night stalking the city's underbelly while Nesta slept safe and sound in Nalleth's howdah.

Hours later, Tamlin grumbled and squirmed against her: he nuzzled her neck and stilled, raising his head where he had burrowed it, blinking blearily. Curling around her as he had relaxed in sleep, he had slung his arm over her waist, pinning her in place, spooning her. She had dozed off, warm and comfortable against him, more exhausted than she would have expected from their visit to the city. She glanced over her shoulder as he stretched; the firelight glinted off his tousled hair, pinpricks of light reflecting in his bleary eyes.

"How long have I slept?" he murmured, his voice sleep-drunk and rich.

"A few hours," she said softly, her eyes on her hands as they moved deftly: she had used magic to coax her new crochet hook and yarn to the sofa, and had been crocheting away contentedly for the last hour, tucked against Tamlin's warmth and strength. There was something so deliciously intimate about sleeping with another person, the way they had fallen asleep together and woken entangled in each other, surrounded by their scent and their heat. She was absolutely cosy, the fire flickering, her toes warm, buried under a blanket with Tamlin's strength against her, grounding her.

"I should get up…"

"Go back to sleep," Nesta murmured, counting her stitches. He felt Tamlin give up the struggle, relaxing utterly against her back. She smiled softly to herself as he burrowed against her as if seeking her warmth, soothed by her scent as he sighed deeply, his arm growing heavy over her waist once more.

She missed the warmth. Sleeping alone after sharing a bed for so long was…incredibly lonely.

Nesta hadn't realised how much she craved physical closeness until it was gone.

Crocheting a brand-new pair of mittens she would never have to pass on to anyone else, Nesta felt a pang in her chest. Most of the time, she did well not to think about her sisters: they had made their choices. For her own survival, she had made hers.

But in that moment, she missed Elain.

She hated that she missed her sister, who had abandoned her. Hated that Elain had chosen to ignore Nesta's distrust and place herself at the mercy of Rhysand and his favourites. Hated that she hadn't even thought about Elain for weeks; that she thought Feyre deserved whatever she had coming to her for choosing strangers over her family.

She hated that she had failed to prepare them for this world, that they were so uncritical, so easily led, so utterly vulnerable. She hated that she didn't feel guiltier for abandoning them to their fates.

They didn't trust her. That was her biggest failing. Feyre had never trusted her. She would never have taken Nesta's word for it that fire burned: she would have burned her hand grabbing hot coals rather than listen to Nesta. But even Elain… She had accused Nesta of rudeness – of ingratitude, as if Rhysand and his favourites were owed her thanks for altering their lives irrevocably, rather than the blame they deserved for thinking they were so superior, so much cleverer, that she couldn't possibly have any insight whatsoever into the danger she and Elain would be placed in by helping them.

Feyre had never trusted Nesta's instincts: Elain had chosen to ignore them to secure herself an easy life.

She wished she didn't worry so much. It couldn't be helped. Crocheting herself a brand-new pair of mittens, enveloped by Tamlin's warmth, she couldn't help it: she couldn't help but worry when the other shoe would drop. When she would be proven right about it all. And how devastated she would be to be proven right because being proven correct meant something horrendous had happened to her sisters.

How long would it take? A year, a century? A millennium? It sounded ludicrous! But…she was facing down the barrel of an eternity estranged from her sisters.

How long until she forgot the cottage and the life she had tried to make as beautiful as she could? How long before she forgot Elain and Feyre and what they had once been? How long before she forgot her family?

She wiped her eyes on her crochet, furious that one arsehole could cause so much damage.

They had been better. When Tamlin had sent Feyre back to the human lands, they had spent time together – her and Feyre: she had listened. It was all Nesta had ever wanted – for Feyre to listen to her! They had begun building something that might have…might have become something more.

And then…him. An obsidian barrier snarling at her every time Nesta got too close, forcing himself between them, keeping her away, twisting every interaction so that she became a villain in her sisters' eyes, because it suited him to keep them isolated from her – from the only one who saw him for what he was and refused to apologise for what she saw.

Exhaling shakily, Nesta wiped her face. Tamlin snuffled beside her and she couldn't help wonder… Would he have forced himself between Feyre and her sisters? Or would he have recognised the tentative foundations they had begun to build based on mutual respect, and left them to sort things out between themselves?

Heart sore, Nesta winced regretfully, knowing the answer.

She told herself, Just because Feyre chose wrong doesn't mean you must suffer for it.

She just wished her sisters wouldn't have to, either. Knew they would. Regretted that they had chosen not to trust her.

Nesta drifted into an uneasy sleep. She dreamed of evil eyes watching her from beneath murky water and she dreamed of the birth of worlds and the deaths of gods. She dreamed of a sun-soaked meadow where she screamed warnings at Feyre, whose ears were deaf to her voice. She dreamed of Elain humming in the cottage allotment, the sun beaming down – and her sister turning her back to her, reaching for an ornamental plant. She dreamed of an antlered beast with sorrowful eyes and a fierce, shining heart born amidst writhing evil tenderly caring for a tiny fledgling chirping in its massive paws. She dreamed of starlight whispering to her and of distant stars dimming. She dreamed of ancient wars and nameless heroes. She dreamed of dragons and of a mother's unending grief and a wall of pure magic. She dreamed of the mare with her magnificent wings clipped and bloody, chased by endless the shadows and screams of Night.

She whimpered as she dreamed. The scent of her dread teased Tamlin's nose and coaxed its way through his mind, cutting through his own nightmares as he fought his way through labyrinthine memories, each more harrowing than the last. He blinked in the silvery darkness of the library and his heart sank at the sight of tears glinting on Nesta's cheeks.

She was silently weeping yet she slept on. He reached up to tenderly brush the tears from her cheeks and tucked her close. He could not rouse her from these dreams when they had ensnared their claws in her: he had tried too often before. There was nothing for it but to wait for her to wake – and give her space as he would a trapped, vicious creature that would rather bite off its own limb than let him close enough to free it.

A.N.: So if there are any Crescent City readers amongst you, you might've picked up on a few breadcrumbs.