Tamlin wondered what day it was, awakening to the sun spearing into his eyes through broken slats. A huff blew through his nose, deepened and heavy by the huling shape of his bestial form.
Having golden fur didn't help, his pelt sucking in all the light in an auric bloom and making it difficult for him to look at himself.
Well, more difficult…
He had stopped bothering to clamor up the steps to his own bed at night, opting to let the weight of melancholy send him huddling into the corner of his foyer. It was cold, and it bothered him, but he didn't deserve much warmth.
Didn't deserve much of anything actually, beyond incessant tirades from the High Lord of the Night Court and the occasional drop off from Lucien; a friend that was wasted on him.
The High Lord of Spring ran his long beast-tongue over his teeth; he was glad Lucien had found true friends in this so-called Band of Exiles he had formed. The name was fitting, but Tamlin hoped that Jurian and that mortal queen would treat him better than he had.
Tamlin tucked into himself more, as if to brace himself for the great mental fall into his own dread. Everyone had fled, left his service, left his side, all for the things he had done and allowed to be done on his watch. Whipped sentries, predatory priestesses, letting the devil Hybern slither through his land to poking holes in the walls, and rend Children Of the Blessed apart like crows with corpse-flesh.
Such an immense, spectacular failure would be emblazoned in the history books soon enough, and Tamlin would probably also be cursed to see it consumed and discussed by the next generation of Fae. He couldn't starve himself, couldn't let dehydration sap him to a husk, and every beast and briggand he had come across during the days he actually got up to patrol, were all no match for even a sliver of his magic and strength.
Such is the strength of the High Lord, especially of Spring; "blessed" to never wilt. Doomed to never die a "passive" death.
High Lord. The one thing Tamlin never wanted to be, and the thing that Rhysand and his father damned him to become.
Tamlin heard a sound of wind rumbling through leaves; the unmistakable sound of winnowing. It came from down the hall past the stairs, and the High Lord braced himself for Rhysand and more of his half hearted attempts to reach out.
And indeed, a fae did march in with dark hair and eyes of glimmering blue, but he was barely two feet tall and had a set of dark pajamas ordained with stars. Two vestigial wings peaked out from behind him, and he held a plush night-beast in his tiny hands.
Tamlin swallowed, caught somewhere between genuine curiosity and terrible dread as the boy turned and gazed at him, eyes wide as he took in the High Lord of Spring's animal shape.
He braced for a wail, a cry of fear at the sight of him, but it ever came. Instead, the boy smiled and made his way down the hall in a slow but resolved toddle, his intent clear as he dropped his toy to free his hands.
Out of instinct and a spark of hatred from the boy's resemblance, Tamlin craned his neck and growled, teeth flashing in the light of day. But the boy only paused, cocked his head to the side, then kept right on walking until he was inches away.
Either the child was too young to yet know fear, or the Illyrian in him refused to let him back down, to ignore the danger in the pursuit of his goal. And he indeed reached it, pushing his small hands against Tamlin's muzzle and running his fingers through the fur.
At the touch, Tamlin was utterly paralyzed, save for one twinge of the nose as he sniffed the air above the boy's head.
He knew who this was, knew it in his blood and heart and bones, the smell a mixture of a familiar pair that had melded into something new.
It was his son.
This was Rhysand's son…by Feyre.
The Heir to the Night Court was in Tamlin's manor, and was fucking petting him.
Mother above, what did kids his age eat?
Tamlin scoured his kitchen and cabinets for something to give the kid. A vicious rumble rose from the boy's belly after about two minutes of roving over the High Lord's snout, but his face hadn't lost the pout he made when Tamlin changed back into a Fae. At least he didn't start crying, thank the gods.
Two lone jars of applesauce rested in the dark shadows of the cupboard, Tamlin picking them up and searching them for any signs of rot or wasting. Thankfully, neither was present. "Guess you'll have to do."
He turned back, unscrewed the top, and gently laid the green mushed mixture across a wooden plate he fished out, topping it off with a mismatched spoon before placing it down in front of the child.
The boy glanced up at him, utterly lost to the purpose of the silverware.
"What?" Tamlin said, eyes narrowing as the part-Illyrian shoved his tiny hand into his tiny mouth. "Oh, gods. No. I'm not feeding you." Tamlin pushed the plate closer to him, and as if intent to push his buttons, the boy pounded his hand into the sauce and scooped it into his mouth, dribbling down his chin and onto the floor.
Tamlin hadn't cared about a clean floor for years, but somehow that got him on his feet. A rag found its way into his hands, wiping the mess from the kid's face and hand before getting the rest off the floor. Then he remembered that he had gods-damned magic, and that he could have just made it all vanish at a whim.
He really had been out of it, hadn't he?
The kid made to dip his fingers in the apple sauce again, the High Lord halting him and reluctantly picking up the spoon. Carefully, he caught a spoonful and brought it to the boy's mouth, a groan bursting from his lips as the child ate, then smiled with full cheeks.
"Cauldron boil me, what am I doing?" Tamlin asked himself, even as he picked up another bite for the kid to take.
He looked so much like Rhysand, minus the cool, daylight blue of his eyes, young and wide with wonder. It reminded him of the first day she had come, how in awe she was of his manor, of the world of the fae at large…of Tamlin himself.
The High Lord caught a drop of sauce before it stained the boy's clothes. He had to have winnowed here by accident, a consequence of his already burgeoning power. Even at his young age, Tamlin could feel it, a smoldering ember that would blaze right past both him and Rhysand once he reached adulthood .
The fact that Tamlin had not kept up with his wards didn't help matters either, but still, why would he have ended up here of all places? He figured Rhys would have probably spelled the boy to never come within miles of Tamlin's Court, yet here he was. Rhys' son.
Feyre's son.
Something in Tamlin dropped, a heavyweight whose rope had finally snapped. He held no hope of Feyre ever returning, of there ever being some chance for reconciliation. But the presence of this boy, the manifestation of her and Rhysand's love for one another, the finality of it was a cold shard to his heart. He should hate this boy, be doing everything in his power to banish and scare him from the manor. But then he remembered exactly whose words—whose feelings—those were.
The echoes of his father and his brothers circled around him, telling him the boy was a grave reminder of his failures, a taunt or some kind of trap to give Rhys the excuse he needed to rip out Tamlin's throat once and for all.
The second he harmed a hair on his head, the High Lord of Night would come and indulge in his violent delights.
Tamlin broke from his thoughts, noticing that he had paused with the spoon just out of reach for the boy to eat. He brought it down to let the kid feast, and in time the entire bowl of applesauce was gone.
As Tamlin cleaned the bowl, his eyes lingered on the rest of the dishes, the disgusting stack that had grown from his immense negligence. He cleaned about seven more than he intended, before noticing the part-Illyrian had gotten up and began waddling, keen to collect the night-beast toy he had discarded.
Tamlin walked and sat on the step leading to the foyer, watching the kid mimic the growls and hisses of the beast in emulation.
"Your parents must be worried about you." He said, knowing the kid wasn't paying attention. Visions of Rhysand tearing his manors apart, soaring over the night skies in search of his son, Feyre worried sick and hunting right alongside him, bow in hand in case of any danger.
It should have brought Tamlin comfort, to imagine them so harried, so desperate and worried and willing to do whatever it took to find him, just as he had done…
But it didn't.
The High Lord of Spring flicked his gaze back to the boy, catching in the middle of a yawn as he exhausted himself. His half-lidded pale blue eyes struggled to stay open, but he shuffled up and approached Tamlin at the steps, his tiny hand tugging on the high fae's pants. Tamlin's brow rose, unsure as to what the kid was trying to tell him, until the heir of the Night Court pushed and nuzzled his head against Tamlin's side.
"Are you…are you ordering me to change?" The boy's head rose, his blank stare holding save for a single blink. He was. He was asking him to turn back into his beast form so he could fucking sleeping on him!
Tamlin almost laughed. Only a toddler and he was just as indignant and entitled as Rhysand was. He had half a nerve to scoop the kid up, winnow straight into the Night Court, and drop him off right then and there.
But he didn't.
Instead Tamlin sighed, letting himself fall back into that golden, antler-crowned form and sloping down at the base of the stairs. The boy laughed and giggled, happy to see the great beast once again, and quickly made himself comfortable laying down at Tamlin's gilded flank.
The High Lord waited, held still and calm until he heard the soft breaths to sleep. He inched up slightly but the boy didn't stir. Made sense that the heir of the Night Court was a heavy sleeper. He shifted and caught the boy in a masterful flair of magic, picking him up and gently moving to stand as he thought on what to do.
Did he send a fucking missive? "Hey, your kid wandered into my mansion and I was wondering if you wanted him back."
No. No, he would have to go himself. Have to winnow in with no notice and explain everything, and hope that the gods were kind enough to grace the Night Court with enough patience for him.
He watched the boy sleep, and sighed. This was their child; Rhys and Feyre would have no patience for any story, any excuse, especially from him.
Tamlin let the shadows of his power coil around him, praying to the Mother that the sound of winnowing wouldn't wake the boy, and as he felt the cool bite of frosted grass under his bare feet, he opened his eyes and found the kid still asleep.
Seems the gods were kind today.
Gazing up to the massive soap-stone colored tower, Tamlin lost himself in the coiling darkness of the night above, in the quilt of stars that peered through the clouds.
He hadn't been here in years, and he didn't realize just how much he missed the sky here until now.
The boy stirred in his hands, reminding him of his mission, and Tamlin skulked carefully towards the back door of the yard he now realized he was in. A small quilt sat at the edge of a stone bench, and he quickly wrapped the boy in it so as to beat back the Night Court chill.
Laying him down carefully, Tamlin bushed a small curl out from his face and stood to leave, but not before noticing a set of banners and decorations through the back door's window. Frills and starlight-colored decorations flanked a trio of Italic letters: "N, Y, X."
"Nyx." Tamlin repeated, smirking at the irony of it. Some kind of celebration had been had, the decorations left up for sometime out of pure laziness or lack of time on the boy's parents' part. Then the door within the party room suddenly opened, swift movement sending Tamlin scuttling behind the bench.
When the sound of the back door opening never came, he peeked out, and his heart shuddered at the sight within.
Feyre, face stained and garbed in a dark sweater, stood there speaking frantically to another girl with the same colored hair; probably one of her sisters. A dirty paintbrush was nestled in the bun she had put her hair in, and it was clear she was on the verge of crying with how upset she was.
Tamlin kicked himself; he should have bought the kid back sooner. Damn the crying or the hunger or the petty revenge, or whatever strange esoteric force it was that made him keep the boy around this long.
This was his life, and his mother was worried sick.
Tamlin's hand dropped and picked up a small piece of gravel, arching back in preparation to tap the glass before winnowing back to the safety—and loneliness—of Spring. He only paused when a pair of sleepy blue eyes stared back up at him.
Damnit, he was awake.
The boy was putting two and two together despite the haze of slumber, sitting up and reaching out for the High Lord as he reeled back, threw the tiny stone, and winnowed out of the yard before he could even hear the tap of its landing.
Nyx, alone and sitting in the grass of the estate garden, began to cry.