Tamlin felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of his temple as his magic swept glass off the floor, carefully shaping it back to a flat plane and nestling tight into the window frame. This morning, he awoke with the gift of the slightest motivation—a desire to fix some pieces of the manor to make it less broken, less dangerous.
Stepping on splinters and broken glass was nothing for a High Lord—one of his many small enduring punishments—but for a child through?
Tamlin shook his head, trying not to think about it. Replacing his wards was the first thing he had done; a starting measure in case that boy ever attempted to winnow back in again. But if that blonde's snatching of Feyre was any indication, it probably was for naught.
He had little practice with abjuring magic, since he could always just be present to protect those he wished to defend, before he became High Lord.
"A warrior has little use for wards," his father always said. "Why bother wasting energy with needless shields rather than saving it for the fight to come? If any are so brazen to approach Spring with killing intent, our power shall sharpen to claws to rip them apart, and nothing else."
His father was a fool, a bloodthirsty fool whose shortsightedness left Tamlin with nothing, save the burden of a responsibility he had never wanted nor trained for.
As he released the arcane hold a breath shot away from him; he really had been out of practice with his powers, surprised to still be able to perform something as involved as reforging glass from hundreds of shards.
Like any weak muscle, he would have to work at it, but he took a moment to admire what he had done, how the window looked pristine as if it had never been shattered to pieces by one of his episodes.
Even though the rage felt like a distant memory, he knew in truth. It was lingering, slithering within his bones and lying in wait. Isolating himself was the only way to protect everyone from its lashing out, from the moments his anger took the reins and tore into the world with his magic.
It had gotten so much worse since his time Under the Mountain, every day a struggle to keep that gaping pit inside him from stretching farther and farther, threatening to consume him along with everything else it could get its hands on.
All because of her.
That hateful, murderous, predatory woman whose malice scarred Prythian even years after he had torn her to pieces…
Torn himself to pieces.
Tamlin shook his head; no sense in dwelling on broken bonds. Wood splinters groaned as his magic pieced them back together, gathering to reform one of the many structural pillars that struggled to bear the manor's weight.
The High Lord then took a rest, sitting at the top of the steps by the double doors that led to the courtyard. It may have just been the foyer and the entryway, but the progress he had made fixing everything let the weight in his chest lighten just a little. A lone bookshelf, two love seats, and solid, uncracked floorboards were the few, minute details that he had gotten too, but tomorrow he would tackle the stairs and the frayed, broken banisters that flanked them.
Maybe he'd get far enough to see his own bedroom again—perhaps even sleep in it.
Tamlin rolled his sleeves down, thinking about the conversation he had with Feyre's sister at the border, how much less vicious and vengeful she was compared to the past.
Having eavesdropped a bit on the discussion before making himself known, it seemed the Night Court was keen to keep favor with Eris in preparation for his eventual ascension as High Lord; the eldest Archeron serving as the lure.
Given she had cut the King of Hybern's head off, she didn't seem the type to seduce or cajole for the sake of anybody except herself. Yet now she was mated to Rhys' war general while also serving as a carrot on a stick for Lucien's disdainful brother?
What was going on there? No mated fae would ever even consider sharing their mate with anyone, even playfully. Eris had already suffered the wrath of one of the Night Court's Illyrian brutes; why tempt the other one?
Tamlin stood up and shrugged off his pondering. The Night Court was beyond welcome to any inconvenience, and frankly, he had better things to do than waste any further thought on it.
If only the feeling were mutual.
The windows shuddered, then splintered apart, the fresh pane once again scattered on the floor as shadows burst through and coalesced into a familiar, dreadful shape. Tamlin however, gave no notice to the darkness, just staring blankly at the shards at his feet, and the reflection of his eyes within them.
He had long been past sitting in the anger that Rhysand's presence evoked, instead opting for the small, comforting mantra that allowed him to mentally prepare himself for what was to come.
You did the right thing. You bought him back, and he will never forget it.
"Talk. Now." Huh. Not even a hello or feigned attempt at cordiality; straight to the venom.
"I just fixed these windows." Tamlin replied, still not meeting Rhysand's eyes.
"I don't give a damn about your windows." The High Lord's shadow coiled over, but even as his lethal cerulean gaze took over Tamlin's in the broken glass below, the lord of Spring didn't turn up. "Why was my son here?"
"I'd say "perhaps you should ask him," Tamlin muttered, finally meeting the stare, "But he doesn't seem to be at the talking stage yet. Perhaps you should keep better track of your things." Rhys' hand knotted around Tamlin's collar, jerking him to a stand.
"That's. My son." Every word was laced with a promise of death, Rhys' mouth twitching as he bared his teeth. "If you ever-"
"If I ever what, Rhys?" Tamlin barked back, swiping away Rhys' grip. "I seem to recall only one of us has a history of mutilating children. So you can keep all of your paternal bloodlust and save it for the Illyrians." Rhys looked confused at that. "Oh, you intend to spare Nyx the wonderful experience of breaking atop the mountain?"
Tamlin felt a single hint of regret as Rhys' pupils cut down to slits.
"He won't know that life." He hissed coldly.
"That your decision, or the High Lady's?" They were mere inches from one another now, Rhys' shadows nearly thundering while Tamlin felt the claws stir within his hands. "You have a lot of nerve coming here and badgering me about visits I don't even want, especially considering how many times I keep catching your oaf-general and his mate." Rhys laughed, the sound brimming with disdain.
"Finally found a bit of nerve, Tamlin? You never had the gall to insult my brother to my face before." Tamlin huffed a soft breath, eyes rolling.
"No nerve, Rhys. Just a lack of interest in whatever you have to say, and an ever-growing wish for you to leave me the hell alone." Tamlin pushed past Rhys, unsure of where he was even going. He just had to get away from him, had to remove himself from the stirring in his chest, the rushing in his head. The High Lord of the Night Court was furious; utterly thirsting for a fight and willing to say anything, touch any nerve he could to get it.
"My son comes here by accident, and suddenly you're tidying this place up." Rhys' hands found their way into his pockets. "Peculiar, isn't it?"
Tamlin paused. Shit.
"I told him to never come here again. So if I see, if I hear that he is here a second time, I will hold you personally responsible." Tamlin's hand gripped the edge of the doorway, wood whining as his nails latched into it.
Enough, goddamnit. Enough!
"Sure." The High Lord of Spring crooned, head coiling back like a serpent. If Rhys' words had so much venom, it was only fair that Tamlin shared some of his own. "I'll be sure to ward up my mansion so the next time he winnows here, he bounces right off and finds himself outside with the naga. I'm sure he'll be a nice snack."
Rhys took a step, the shadows of the room drawing back to gather deep within him.
Preparations for the inevitable.
Tamlin turned to face him in full, complete acceptance of what was to come filling his heart.
Ever since the day Rhys and his father cursed him to rule this Court, he knew things between them would only end one way.
"Your son ever comes here again, do well to remember that I'm the only thing standing between him and oblivion, so perhaps you should be thanking me for sending him home, fed and warm." Rhys continued laughing, as if ignoring every single word Tamlin had said.
"You know. I never did repay you for your words at the High Lord's meeting. About Feyre." Regret would have given the high fae a slight chill, had fury not boiled it all away.
"No. You didn't. And I haven't repaid you for letting your father open my mother's throat, or Feyre for setting my court aflame. There's many things that haven't been repaid, so be mindful of the debts you owe."
Tamlin didn't' realize what he had said until it left his lips, and Rhys' smile vanished entirely.
"What did you just say?" He whispered, a wrathful shudder as he inclined his head.
Tamlin felt a flicker of worry, an urge to scramble back and try and balm the words over with something, anything…
But there was nothing. There was no want for peace, no wish for change, no reason to continue and suffer this abuse in the name of hoping things could go back to the way they were.
This was it. The end. One of them would live, and one of them would die.
"It means," He growled, teeth elongating to punctuate his words. "Be mindful. Of the debts. You owe."
Rhys pointed a finger, a blast of misting power ripping through the air between them, but just as Tamlin had burned through Amarantha's magic when he slew her, his energy flooded over Rhys' and crushed it to nothingness.
He tore forward, hands turning clawed as they pounded into the floor for a leap, before bludgeoning Rhysand through the double doors into the courtyard outside. The half-Illyrian's hands clamped down on Tamlin's growing jaws, warring to keep his teeth from tearing his head from his neck.
Tamlin continued to shift in his grasp, golden fur and horns bursting forth before he planted his legs, and swung the ruler of the Night Court through a stone fountain.
Rhys tumbled up to a stand, wind shooting into Tamlin's face as his wings burst out in full splendor, drinking in all the color of spring around him.
"I should have tore you open the second you put your hands on her." Rhys threatened, violet globes of energy bloomed in his hands. Tamlin smirked as well as he could in his beast form, cobblestones cracking as he stepped toward his great tormentor.
"And I should not have wasted my power bringing you back. But come on, Rhysie. Let's see who handles it better. You? Or me?" The vines and greenery around Rhysand begin to coil like snakes, enlivened by Tamlin's power and wrath. "I'm sure Amarantha will be glad to have you warm her bed again in Hel."
Rhys howled, taking to the air as his hands shot forward, energy exploding against Tamlin's body in violet flame. Circling around the courtyard, his power burned the remaining flowers in the garden to blackened ash, Tamlin using stone rails and the manor's remaining pillars as cover against the magic. Catching a fallen column in his jaw, he hurled it at Rhys, sending the High Lord crashing through the roof into the house's second level.
"You pushed me to this!" Tamlin hollered, the tree shaking from the volume. "I never wanted to be High Lord, and you fucking forced it on me!" The manor's wing erupted, spears of raw magic shooting from Rhys' eyes at eating up all the stone and wood in its way. Black mist boiled from the half-Illyrian's mouth as he screamed, like the shadowy breath of a dragon.
Tamlin scuttled through into the opposite wing, narrowly evading the power that threatened to disintegrate to shreds of flesh and bone. The light then vanished, replaced with a swiftly rippling darkness that surrounded him at all sides. Every angle was completely black, Tamlin knocking into furniture and feeling glass and splinters puncture his hands.
A fist crushed into the side of his skull, then came a kick to the ribs hastened by the flap of wings. Tamlin swung his claws out blindly, only to be rewarded with an open palm to the throat that nearly knocked him unconscious.
As his throat pulsed in pain, he drew back his rage and opened his ears, listening to the quietest step, the subtlest beat of wings, anything to tell him where Rhys was going to strike next.
Tamlin heard the glass shriek to his left, and thrashed his horns just in time to catch Rhys lunging towards him. To block being skewered by antlers, Rhys gave up the concentration of his spell, and so the darkness fled and revealed the manor once more. The High Lords struggled, Rhys' hands bleeding as he pushed to keep Tamlin from goring him with horns.
Once again, their gazes clashed together like swords, utter hatred compelling one another to rip, to fight, to tear and scream and forget any possible semblance of good the other may have once had. Neither of them realized that tears had begun falling from their eyes, a quiet, repressed mourning that neither would ever acknowledge.
Rhys drew himself down to get the leverage he needed, lifting Tamlin up before crashing his knee into the Spring court ruler's lower jaw. Tamlin felt his teeth loosen, and the High Lord of Night drew all of his power into his fist before plunging it into the beast's flank, sending him careening across the hall and down the stairs.
Agony tore through the high fae, lumbering to a stand as he struggled to breathe, the left side of his torso flaring with blood.
"You pushed me to this." Rhysand said, the half-Illyrian's voice infesting Tamlin's mind. "When you laid my family out for your father on a silver platter. When you decided to fuck my mate."
"She wasn't your mate at the time." Tamlin growled, and suddenly his bones, his muscles, his entire body, began to betray him. Rhys' talons had plunged into his mind, knowing that no matter the volume of magic he levied at the High Lord of Spring, a physical fight would be an uphill battle.
"I could snap your brain in half and trap you in the form forever. Maybe I'll put a collar on you and take you back home, make you a pet for Feyre." Tamlin, despite the agony coursing through his brain, grinned.
"It…won't change…a thing." Tamlin felt Rhys swoop down from out of sight, and his thumbs pressed into his forehead with the full force of his Daemati powers piercing into him. He wailed and roared for his power—his court—to save him, and the brambles that had roped around his home leapt to his rescue.
Before he could shatter his mind, Rhys was torn away; latched to the floor by roots and thorns as Tamlin was forced back into his fae form. But with a swipe of his wings, the High Lord of Night slashed through the vines and turned them to rotted dust for good measure, before slamming upward to get him back to his feet.
Tamlin coughed and tried to wade through the pain in his head, until Rhys gripped him by the neck with one hand, before plunging the other right into the wound at his side. His ribs being pulled centimeter by centimeter, Tamlin strained to remain still, right where Rhys wanted him.
"Guess I wield it better." Rhys muttered, the whites of his eyes now entirely drowned in black as he embodied his full power. Both his hands and mental talons had clenched in a vice around Tamlin, like a hawk with a struggling rabbit.
"Does it feel good?" Tamlin managed to get out, blood dripping down his chin.
No. Tamlin heard? Or, felt? Rhys hasn't said anything, his teeth clenched so tight they threatened to break, but that "no" was in his voice, as were the thousands of other thoughts worming their way into the High Lord of Spring's head.
In his rage, in his need to lock Tamlin's mind down, Rhys had left his own mind wide open. Images and feelings were pouring a deluge, a psychic rapid of anger, fear, and self-hatred that had been all locked up inside.
He saw Rhys and Feyre form a new bargain; one of unity in death and foolhardy desperation.
He saw Feyre's sister kneeling before her pale, pregnant body, wielding primordial power to change fate itself.
And he saw the darkness Rhys had been lost in upon giving his life to seal the Cauldron, and the small kernels of Prythian's High Lords to guide him back.
Tamlin's eyes widened, and he let every muscle loosen in a final surrender.
Rhys was broken, harried, lost between the mask he wore and the truth that lay in his heart. It was the same sort of suffering Feyre had gone through, the one he had been blind to while trying to make everything perfect and meaningful for them.
But whereas Feyre could fight, could push and claw herself back from that abyss, Rhys it had seemed, could not.
"I hate you." The High Lord of Night said, his hateful voice tinged with sorrow.
"I wish I could hate you." The High Lord of Spring replied, shimmering eyes meeting those of the soon-to-be ender of his life.
It was true—even when he served Amarantha, even when he slew his family and cursed him with rulership, even when he stole his one possible chance of happiness away—Tamlin never hated Rhys.
That made what he was about to say all the more worse.
"You can't live with it." Rhys paused at Tamlin's words, his fingers having already grown to talons primed to cut his throat. "If it wasn't for me bringing her here, you never would have met Feyre, and if it wasn't for me convincing the High Lords, she would still be dead." The high fae swallowed, throat raw as if he had swallowed glass. "If it wasn't for me giving you that last light, you would be gone too."
Tamlin remembered clear as day why he did it; because someone needed to live. Someone needed a happy ending after everything that Hybern had done.
Everything that he had done.
"Your love, your life, and your son, are all because of me. And you…can't…live with it." Rhys let his claw dig into the side of Tamlin's neck, his eyes wide like a mad man.
"You think you convinced the High Lords to bring Feyre back? When Amarantha died, when the curse was broken, we all got our powers back, Tamlin. You think I didn't peer into their minds and make them give it up, make them bring her back?" Tamlin winced, teeth stained red from the blood in his throat.
"Of course." He lilted. "They wouldn't have done it because they owed her everything, because she freed them from fifty years of torment. Why should Feyre have earned anything on her own merit, when you and the Night Court can just take the credit for every good thing that happens in Prythian?" Tamlin sniffled, eyes stinging at the mention of her name so many times. It had taken its toll.
"I loved her, more than you ever will, and more than you ever could. So do it. Just do it. I'm tired of being alone."
Rhysand's trembling hand rose up high, the sun gleaming against his claws, and Tamlin closed his eyes as his chin lifted to expose his neck.
Finally.
"Rhys!" The two High Lords heard, the faint rumbling of a winnow right before it. Both of them turned, and found Feyre standing in the middle of the room.
Nyx was seated in her arms, eyes wide with fear at what was unfolding before them. One look at his son's face sent Rhys up to his feet, releasing Tamlin from the grasp of both mind and body.
"What're you doing here?" The High Lord of Night asked, Feyre stepping back as he approached. Catching his reflection in one of the broken windows, he saw the black-sclera of his eyes, the wounds and welts that had patterned across his face and his body, and the blood that coated his hands, hair, and face.
He looked like a monster.
"Feyre, I…" Nyx hid his face away, and Feyre's brow furrowed in a cold, solemn rage.
"Rhys. Go home. Please." Rhys faltered for a moment, but then slowly rose ram-rod straight.
"I'm not leaving you here with him." Not after what he had done. Tamlin would have laughed if he wasn't in the worst pain imaginable.
"Yes you are." Feyre retorted, nostril flaring as she took a step toward the ruler of the Spring Court. Rhys reached for her but she wheeled back on him, and Tamlin weakly watched as a bout unfolded with their minds. Yet the entire time, he noticed that Nyx had turned up slightly to face him, a small tear running down his round cheek.
Eventually Rhysand relented, sighing in defeat as the space behind him peeled in a winnow. "Please have Mor look at you." Feyre urged, Rhys not even nodding before he left.
And there they were, just how it started.
Feyre and Tamlin, alone in his manor.
At least that's what she had thought, until she learned of the glamour and how her sneaking about made her look like a fool in front of his court.
Tamlin sat up as best he could, eyes chained to the floor as if he just couldn't meet her gaze.
"I told him not to do this." She started, voice cold and distant as if to hide her initial horror, her concern for him. The High Lord said nothing, his chest undulating with a mixture of fear, distress, and resentment. Why couldn't she have just remained as hateful as he thought she was, and sat back while her High Lord peeled him apart, finally freeing him of this torment?
"It's fine." He said, clutching his side and grunting as the pain surged. Feyre knelt down, trying to meet Tamlin's eyes, but he shied away.
So she opted for a different approach, nestling Nyx closer to her as her son turned to face the Lord in full. "Nyx wanted to come back. I…supposed it would have been a good excuse to talk."
"About?" Tamlin hissed, retreating further into himself.
Feyre ran through the list. Beron? Koschei? The changes in Prythian? Lucien and Elain's situation? There were plenty of subjects, but Tamlin hadn't been around for any of the now seasonal High Lord Meetings to be informed of them. But she kept silent, waiting until the silence between them grew unbearable for the High Lord.
"I think your mate had the same idea," He murmured, "To talk…"
Feyre walked over and placed Nyx on one of the few undamaged chairs. "Stay here." She ordered, earning a nod from him. Turning back, she approached Tamlin again, but he shuffled away from her touch.
"Get away from me." She pursed her lips in a stern look, the pointed stare of a new mother.
"I'd rather we speak without you having a gaping wound in your side."
"I'd rather we didn't speak at all."
"Glad to see your stubbornness hasn't changed." She offered her hand again, the blooming light of the Court of Dawn's healing magic resting within it. A shock of agony in his left side made Tamlin relent, taking his former lover's hand and letting the energy course through him.
Best case scenario, it was a trick and he would die anyway.
"Rhys told me you were living peacefully." She said, a half-truth. Rhys never talked with her about his visits with Tamlin, and after what she had just saw, she could see why. Perhaps she just hoped that he was doing fine without ever having to hear about it.
"I didn't realize how I lived my life was any of your business anymore." Tamlin replied, wincing as Feyre willed the flesh, muscle, and bone to knit itself back together.
"From a personal standpoint, it isn't. But you're a High Lord, and I'm a High Lady. We can't divorce ourselves from each other entirely, much as we wish." Feyre felt the weight of that truth, forever unable to unlatch herself from those first memories no matter what she did.
Tamlin suppressed a small smirk. We. As if any of this breaking had been mutual. At least she was taking her new role seriously.
"There was a lot going on, which was why I was keen to let Rhys handle everything."
"I noticed." He replied, both their gazes moving over the fidgeting Nyx. The stuffed night beast was still in his hands, the boy making growling noises as he let the beast rove over the hills of the oversized couch. "Congratulations…I guess."
Tamlin's words threw a wall of cold bitterness between them, and Feyre pulled her hand away as the last of the wound was repaired.
It confounded her a bit, how Tamlin could not want to tear Nyx apart or hold him over Rhys and her as some sort of hostage, some sort of last vengeance against them. But it seemed the conversation she had with Nesta held true; Tamlin had bought Nyx back safe and sound.
"If you want us to leave, we'll leave. But I'd rather we actually talk." Feyre stood and took a seat by Nyx, before picking him up and placing him on her lap. "And Rhys won't be coming back here anymore."
Tamlin chuffed, sitting up fully. "Never knew him to take being told what to do lightly." Feyre remained stoic, unshakable in her resolve. She had long since passed the feeling that she could just leave things as they were, ignoring Tamlin and being unable to face the harshness of the things they had done to each other.
That wasn't a good example for a mother to be, nor was it for a High Lady, a role she had finally begun to sink her teeth into.
"I have an unfair advantage." Feyre smirked for a moment, but then realized just how much every sentence spilt more salt into the old wounds they had with one another. Every word, every attempt at light heartedness, was soured by all that had happened between them, all still raw and unresolved, left to dry and rot like a festering wound.
"Regardless," she continued, "He can take it how he likes."
Tamlin finally let his eyes rise, catching the visage of Feyre seated with her young son at her lap. "Is that not what you wanted?" He asked. Admittedly, it was a low blow to tug on Feyre's vengeful streak, but it was the truth.
"I never wanted him to hurt you." She answered, a slight pain in her voice even as Nyx reached up to her and spoke in incomprehensible babbles.
It should have burned Tamlin—the sight of her with her son—should have awakened in a torrent that brought down the last of the manor upon them both.
But it didn't. He just kept focus on the boy starting to teeth on his little night beast, and his mother watching him dutifully. She practically paid Tamlin no mind beyond the initial concern, having grown strong enough with her own right that she had nothing to worry about.
Tamlin felt as if a small part of him would have been proud, but he sighed, careful not to aggravate his bruises as he stood up.
"Has he eaten?"