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songofthesibyl · 10 days

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The Demon God

A fic at the very edge of canon—the state in which Tamlin might currently be in the books.

He blinked, turning his head as far as it would go behind him, taking in shades of the night in black, and white, and grey. Hunger bit at him, and his instincts searched. The rustling in the grass. He loosed his talons from the tree branch and swooped down, grabbing the mouse, and crushing it, and swallowing it whole. And was contended, and was owl, with nothing more to do than perch, and stalk, and eat, and sleep.

He turned his head again. Strange animals approaching. Tall, and pale, and making strange noises. He didn’t like them, and eyed them suspiciously as they came near. They grew closer to each other, laughing, and reaching hands out to touch, and he hooted in warning, but they only turned their heads up, pointing, and smiling, and one taking hold of the other, and the closeness—and he fled, sweeping his way across the landscape, and dived down, not wanting to see anymore. He scurried along the ground, in the form of that which he had just devoured, and remembered it was still dark, and other owls might come for him.

They would all come for him.

—No.

Smaller. So no one would notice him. The world became almost unrecognizable. They would never find him, he would slip through their fingers. And he would not know them either. He wouldn’t recognize what a foot was, or a hand, just a shadow, and he was stronger than he seemed in his armor. And he was unimportant, and no one. He had never stretched himself out so greatly, his world never so expansive. And he could chew on whatever he could find, and he would explore, he would never find an end to it.

But then other ants came, and they wanted his help, they wanted him to carry, to build, to be of use, and he fled from them, he could not bury himself quickly enough, he had to grow, burrow with furry paws into the ground. He could live his whole life here, and he curled himself up in anticipation of a long sleep. But they wouldn’t leave him alone here either, they came for him again, and he fled from rabbit, his claws and fangs covering him as quills. And then finally settled, content. And was hedgehog for a long time. He walked in the night, unafraid, knowing the owls sensed what he was. That he was outside of the cycle, that he would be poison in their mouths. And he realized he was beginning to remember, and he bowed to the ground, deeper, stretching his arms, until he slithered, until he had no arms or legs at all. And all he could do was crawl across the lands that were of him but no longer his, and never had been, and listen, as rumblings, as cries, as screams, through the earth. But not the words. He only felt their pain, he did not know it. He slid in and out of empty stables, burnt fields. Coiled himself up in an abandoned cottage. Occasionally there was warmth, and strange, pulsing hearts around a campfire. And more of what must have been crying.

He felt too much. He was too much with the earth. He didn’t want to see it, or feel it. He wanted it all to drown out. And then he was tadpole, and then leapt as frog until he reached a river, and plunged in, and shed his legs, and was salmon. And there was the rushing of water, and the flow, leading him far, far away, inextricably, his instincts pulling him to where the salt got in, to where they met, where he would get pulled under, the tide taking him further and further, and he remembered boats docking at the shore, and who came out, stomping on the earth and breaking and burning it, and the screams—

No.

He gasped for breath, stopping at the very edge, and leapt out as otter. But it was still too close, he had to get far from the edge, and what lay beyond, waiting. What had always been waiting. He had to get away. And his legs grew, he shook off the water, and galloped far, far away, leaping over the river, tearing up the earth, his hair whipping in the wind. He wondered, briefly, what had happened to his mare, and his head shook, and he reared up, and he realized he had driven himself too far again—he was at the border. And he remembered what he had driven south, what had come south before, and he had made a home, and been the gardener, and—

No.

He neighed, and turned, and fled from horse, running wildly, destroying everything in his path, devouring everything he could as boar, then grew taller again, desiring strength, wanting to fight, horns sprouting from his head.

He didn’t know how long he remained that way. But he felt contented. He slowed. He destroyed nothing. All he ate was grass. His hair swayed in the breeze, covering his eyes at intervals. A rich golden brown. The color reminded him of something, but he shook it off, lying in the grass, sleeping in the sun. It would renew itself, after a time. It was strange. He would chomp on the grass, all around him. And would begin to move on. But when he woke up, it would have come back, like he hadn’t eaten it at all. And maybe he hadn’t, because he was hungry again, and would eat. And a thought came to him, from somewhere, that there was a place where everything was forever renewed, forever growing, forever opening. But for the heart, that was rotten, where nothing grew at all. Not even grass. And another word came to him, that made him shiver—blight. He did not know what the word meant, but he did not like it. But these were strange thoughts, ones whose origin he did not know. It was probably something from one of his dreams—such strange dreams, they were. Of strange creatures, with odd colors and coverings that were not fur, and hair. And they ate holding something golden in their hands. Not grass. Things unappetizing to him, unrecognizable. There were three of them in his dream. And he felt a warmth, and then a pain, at them. And a particular pain at one. Like one of the others, he had something covering part of his face. But there was a viciousness in the eyes, a coldness, and fangs lengthening, and claws that would tear through him, and he knew nothing but that he hated him, and he was glad it was all a dream. He shook it off, waved it off with his tail. And kept eating, and roaming the meadow. Never too far, though. Something told him not to go too far, in any direction. But to keep to his patch of land that would forever renew itself for him.

And he began to dread closing his eyes, and what he would see, and what would be staring back at him. It frightened him when nothing else would. Like nothing he had ever seen in nature. And not ever-renewing, or life-giving. Not content with just grass. But all-devouring, all-destroying. Similar to other animals he had seen, but not any of them. There was something, deep inside, that was not animal at all. And he realized it was a monster.

But it was not real. He reassured himself as he woke, the green-gold eyes still flashing for a moment as he blinked himself awake. It was not real. Such a creature as that did not exist.

But then, one day, when it was sunny, and warm, and he was at peace, he opened his eyes, and he saw one of the strange creatures from his dream. It was a little different. The face. The top half was different. It had looked like some sort of animal that he was familiar with, and seen, at times. It made such strange sounds, like that animal did. But he knew it was not that animal, but the creature from his dream. His long red hair swayed in the breeze, and one of his eyes was the same color as his own hair. And the other eye was like the strange things they ate with.

He wanted to flee again, and was aware, somehow, that he could do so. In ways bull could not. That he could become bigger, or smaller. Or even become as the animals that flew overhead. It was a passing thought, though. Strange. But so specific. And so real, like the creature walking, and crying out in some strange voice. There was fear in it. And frustration. Fatigue. And though everything in him told him to flee, there was something else, something stronger, something deep inside of him that wanted to stay. And so he remained while the creature grew near. And suddenly the cries were not so strange. He realized it was a language familiar to him, that he knew. The word was meant for him, he thought. He registered it, in his mind.

“Tam!”

Tam. It sounded familiar. Yes. He remembered he knew a creature like that once. A long, long time ago. It wasn’t just that, though. It was attached to something. Another sound, that whispered to him, from that inside-place.

Tam-lin.

And he realized, with a kind of horror, that it was the monster from his dreams, the one that was after him, and he realized it was after him now, that it had been after him this whole time, and it had finally found him, and if the creature of red, and brown, and gold caught him, the monster would too, this monster who had hurt, and devoured, and did not eat grass, but sank its teeth into flesh and tore, and there was a metallic taste, and he wondered how he knew that, when he only ate grass, and he knew his power, and he had to flee, it had recognized him, and he shook his form away, and his tail was bushy, and his fur like the creature’s hair, and he ran, and he screamed, and screamed—

No, not fox, no—

Taller, and fiercer, with antlers, no—

A long snout, one of the creatures who came for him at times, so he would no longer be prey, and the fangs—

No.

Bigger, more powerful than them all, no one could pursue him. His strength unmatched—

No, not that either. He couldn’t decide, in his panic, he saw the throat of stag, cut and blood pouring down, he saw wolf without skin, and bear ripping out throats, and exploding with anger.

Tam-lin.

He was far away. The other creature could not pursue. It was the only way he could flee from him. To become this thing that was not bear, or wolf, or stag. He had thought he couldn’t remember, that he had done it wrong, when they had all blended together. But no, he realized. It was a singular thing, that was him, that was deep inside. That was devourer, and blight, and monster. It was what he had always been, what haunted him in his dreams. With open eyes, he looked over the pool, and saw the green-gold. Flash, and fade. Until the night came, and he could see no more, and took flight.

And fled from him.

@tamlinweek Day Seven: Free Day

#tamlin week 2024 #tamlin week #tamlin #acotar

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songofthesibyl · 11 days

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Last Flowers

A Tamlin POV set during the events of ACOFAS.

It hit him, the weight of it, as soon as he returned. As if he had never been freed from his curse. As if, upon returning to the Spring Court, his heart had calcified. As if it had been happening this whole time. As if he had never been cursed at all. Perhaps he hadn’t. Maybe the whole thing had been another one of his delusions. He had dreamed the last few hundred years. He had laid down in the dirt, and closed his eyes, and the earth had taken him.

And there had been stars under his eyelids, pricking through, willing him to open them. To life, to the new. He was held safely within, only the stars could come through. And when he finally opened his eyes, it was night, and he expected it to last forever. But he would never be in a place that was so stagnant, so stifling, again. He woke up, and he was high above, he breathed in the fresh mountain air, the sun was rising over the peaks. The world minuscule below him. Glittering like the stars, thousands of tiny fae lights. And stars raining from above, that he could catch in his hand. They were everywhere, surrounding him, he had gone into the pool, he was swimming amongst stars, forever. Not drowning—he swam, he flowed, he rose above, he walked out. It was a river, flowing, of many colors, to the sunset, to the sea. A rainbow. A promise that what lay beyond the waves was not Hybern, but only more flowing, more freedom.

He walked, and the night bloomed. There were people in the streets, High Fae and Lesser, and no lesser at all. All mingling, happy. Safely within. He could hear the laughter and sweet words whispered. And the anticipation, walking up stairs, everyone dressed elegantly, shades of blue, and purple, and grey, and glittering jewels. All dressed in their best for her. There was a moment of confusion in the crowd, and panic, that he was alone—but a hand reached out, and he saw the wings, and smiled, and was reassured, and was one of them.

And he took the hand, and joined the others, already waiting in their seats in the front row. And there was a great hush, and she appeared before them in a halo of light, sitting down at her harp, and singing. His mother. He looked around. Everyone was transfixed. And her song was joyous. A joy reflected in the crowd. They cheered, and clapped, and wept for being moved. And she was bashful, and humble, and beckoned with her hand for him to join her on stage. And he looked up to her, in awe, and wonder. But rose from his seat, and reached out.

In the morning, the lilacs began to brown, and shrink from him. The leaves paper-thin, and crumbling. The scent was gone. He heard no birds chirping in the trees.

The light had come to him then, wreathed in night. Obscured. He had not recognized it. But for the red hair, and the scar, and the eye of gold. The sun in his eye. And he had pushed him away, and hissed, and bit. Over and over and over. Until the sun bled, pouring down his chin.

And the petals of the sweet alyssum had fallen to the earth. It had been heavy on him, the petals weighing him down until his eyelids drooped, and finally closed.

And there was laughter again, and vases of sunflowers, and a zinnia tied to his buttonhole. Papers spread out on a table, and the table was round, and they were all there, Bron, and Hart, and Andras, and the sentries, one by one sitting at the table. And he stood, waiting for Lucien to sit first, and then sitting himself. And there was no head of the table, no bigger or smaller chairs. And he looked around. Alis was there too, and the villagers, it was all of them, his entire Court, and they laughed, and drank, and shared poems. It went on and on, ever-expanding, never-fading.

And then the irises had wilted. And the wisteria. The sweet pea. Snapdragon and foxglove and hyacinth. All drooping, heavy. The peonies had fallen to the ground. And no summer flowers replacing them. No moonflowers, or lilies. No sunflowers or aster.

No Autumn.

It was a changing of his Court, finally a movement, an evolution. But no fruits on the vines, or the boughs. Everything was retreating. Fading from him.

Insubstantial as a dream. Where the moonflowers opened, and tuberose, and jasmine, their scents overwhelming, until they closed at the break of day, and the morning glory replaced them. And there were colors, a rainbow of them, streaming across the sky, filling the halls of his manor, that was empty now. Blank as a primed canvas. And the every-color attached itself in abstract forms swiped across, filled in as blocks, free of form, only feeling, emotion. It was a sort of freedom that burst through the floors, splitting the black marble, the jagged gold lines bleeding, the windows and the doors opening out, and the colors running back. And the stagnancy was gone, a refreshing breeze swept through, and everything smelled of paint.

And he woke, and everything was shut in again, and it stank of must and mildew and dust and rot. And an energy was in him, the rebellious agitation of Spring, and he tore through the manor, shattering windows, and slashing doors, his fiddle in splinters against the walls, the canvases all torn. Except hers. But the smell, and the rot, remained. The stagnancy of standing water, and the smell of bacteria building.

The blight spread quickly after that. He went outside, and there was no more drooping, no more yellow-and-browning. Soon, only the rose garden was left. Roses always lasted so late in the year, in the Courts that weren’t fixed. They held on here, too, as if hoping he would last. Clinging to the last bit of life in him. Willing him to come back. But then, finally, relenting. There was nothing to nourish them. He could nourish nothing with his hands, awkward as they were, clumsy as paws. He could not caress, or coax, and encourage the blossom, the bulb, the briar. Petals fell, leaves curled at his touch. Recoiling from it, instinctively. It all fell away.

And he realized, finally, that he wanted it to. He no longer lamented, or resisted it. Let it come finally, the blight.

Let it come for him.

After Rhysand left, he gathered the rest. Somehow, he did not tear through them. Lucien’s favorite handkerchief, pressed flowers. Letters from his mother, scented of cinnamon. Jackets, and shirts—when Lucien had sought him out after the meeting of humans and fae, he had said he had had no other clothes. He had had nowhere else to go.

His eye had burned, the fire in it coming through, flickering, and rising, and fading again. He had been in so much pain.

And he had hurt him. He could still feel the impact of his fists on his face, and Lucien egging him on, pushing him to go further. To just do it already. And he did, and there was blood running down his chin. He had put his hand to his face, and saw the blood on it, and had looked at him, wide-eyed.

And he had told him to leave.

Get out, he had said. Please. Get out.

And he had. But then he kept coming back, and trying, like the roses lingering that bloom well into the Autumn, and even into Winter. And so he had plucked them out, torn them from their roots. Rhysand had helped him to see—

Everything you touch you destroy.

And he let go, and the blossoms scattered on the wind, blowing south.

And then it was all gone. The yellow roses, and the white, and red. The eglantine, pink with a gold eye. The green turned to brown, and then black. The thorns curled round, and covered him, and sank into his flesh. And dragged him down. He would never escape.

It had all been a dream. And he had woken up, and seen what he truly was. So had everyone else. They had fled from him. He had only dreamed that they hadn’t. He had just seen it, that was it—the blood, and the brain matter leaking out of their ears. His mother’s severed head. Rhysand staring at him, full of fury, yet doing nothing. Knowing it was better this way.

There was still smoke in his eyes, and the scent of burnt flesh. He had torn through the manor, and raged, and raged, and he was so tired now. He walked, shedding each layer like petals falling—his bandolier, his boots, his tunic. Everything, until there were only antlers, and fangs, and claws. Fur, and paws tearing up the earth. And he sank down, and curled himself up, and went to sleep a monstrous beast.

@tamlinweek 2024 Day Six: Dreams

#tamlin week 2024 #tamlin #acotar #tamlin week

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songofthesibyl · 12 days

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Seeing Red

A Tamlin POV of Under The Mountain, taking place during and containing dialogue from chapters 35 and 36 of A Court of Thorns of Roses.

“It’s too bad Ianthe isn’t here now,” Amarantha said, drumming her fingers on the table. “She was always so helpful. Always telling you what to do. Always so reassuring. Perhaps she could have comforted—that thing—made her feel better. Told her it was all going to be alright. But that would have been a lie, wouldn’t it? And she never lies. Just abandons you in your time of need.”

Her father had taken her. He would have done the same, if he had children. If he had realized what was about to happen. He was glad Ianthe and her family were gone now.

“But I’m still here,” she went on. “I’ve always been here. And so have you. How long have we done this dance now? Centuries. How much longer must it go on? How many people do you need to hurt? How many have died? Has it been one for every year you’ve been High Lord? Since you refused my offer, and banished me from your lands?”

She stared at him, waiting. But did not seem surprised anymore by his silence, soon continuing on. She just wanted to hear herself speak, knowing she had a captive audience. A whole speech—speeches—in her head, that she had waited forty-nine years to recite to him. No—centuries. Over five hundred years of them. She would never be satisfied. Perhaps if she killed Feyre—yes, then.

Not just her.

“Was it like this, for that poor wretch?” She continued, indicating the feast that lay between them. “Is this how you fattened her up for me to slaughter?”

He looked at the food, without appetite. Every meal now, he had with her. For two weeks. Rhysand must have told her absolutely everything he could. The setup was the same. Even the utensils were taken from his Court. All the gold that Feyre had found so ostentatious and distasteful, when he had mistakenly thought she would be impressed. That it might be nicer, than what she was used to.

Everything here was bleeding, though. Different cuts of meat, cooked rare. Black pudding. Offal. Probably some from her victims. His senses had become so dulled by her, and he willed a separation himself, but he couldn’t be entirely sure there wasn’t human amongst the meat. Not Clare, though. Amarantha intended for her to stay there until the trials were over. As a message to him. And to Feyre.

“She still hasn’t woken up. I’m afraid my Attor was rather brutal. But of course, you know that. You were there.”

She had made him sit there as Feyre had passed out. Brutalized. He had felt Amarantha’s gaze on him all night, the weight of her command, the promise of what would happen if he didn’t remain with her. If he ran after as they dragged her off. And he couldn’t have been sure what he would do, if he had not sat still, in those first few moments after Feyre had left his vision. And the smell of her blood, that the grip on his power hadn’t dulled, lingering after. All night, her blood in his nose. And then he was escorted to his cell—nicer than others, but still a cell—and guarded all night, until he was escorted to breakfast. He supposed he was lucky that this was all she demanded of him—for now. But it was the blood in his nose, the rotting body on the wall. Other than petting him like he was her dog, it would not be him who she would hurt.

Amarantha bit into a sausage, chewing it loudly, then set it half-eaten and still impaled by a golden fork, on her golden plate, and set her elbow on the table, resting her chin on her hand.

“You’re doing so well, aren’t you? Holding it together, not rising to my bait—yet. Of course it’s a pity you couldn’t before, but…centuries, my Tamlin. Of getting stronger, honing those muscles to perfection. The amount of control you have over yourself.” She leaned forward slightly at him across the table. “But it’s the eyes that give it away. Isn’t that right, Jurian?”

Jurian’s eye was unblinking as she sat up in her seat, and kissed the ring.

“Now,” she said, smiling and taking the fork and sausage again in her hand. “Eat. I insist. At least have a drink.” She picked up her own goblet with her other hand. “I know how much you High Lords love your wine.”

She chuckled, taking a deep draught, then set the goblet down heavily on the table with a thud, and bit heartily into the sausage. Then looked into his eyes.

He could not help but turn away in disgust, settling on his own cup, the dark purple-red liquid inside setting off the gold and green in his eyes. He could see through it, as in a looking glass. Centuries, to when he had rejected her as a newly-made High Lord. When he had been compelled to play nice with her after, not wanting war. When she had played nice. He had all but been promised to her once. They’d be generals together one day, with their combined armies they could—he heard it again and again, as a sermon. It did not matter what he wanted, or that he was disgusted by her, and all that she was. It was never for him to choose.

But then he had become High Lord, and while that had not been exactly his choice either, he had realized he would never have to endure her looks, her propositioning. He didn’t have to listen to her ever again. He could learn to live with what he was, and what he had become. He could choose what his Court would be. And that it was his.

He never really believed her when she said she was changed by her sister’s death. And her strategy of going from Court to Court—the Never-Fading Flower they had called her, a sick mockery of the nature of his own Court—it was too familiar. And too obvious.

It hadn’t been worth it to deny her—Hybern’s—offer of trade. And she kept her distance. Knowing she had to. But she had bristled, at seeing Lucien. At his protectiveness, at how everyone had loved him. How he himself did. As if it was the red hair, as if he had taken Lucien in to spite her somehow, as if she thought that the red hair was the reason. He could see it all in her eyes. And then how she had fashioned herself as some sort of courtier, charming everyone, as if in imitation of him. It was pathetic. But it was not worth going to war over, denying opportunities and trade from his people simply because of his personal feelings.

So he had allowed it. He had not liked it, but he had allowed it. And he had to admit—his fears lessened over time, to an extent. He had no intention of becoming friends with her. And he was still suspicious.

But he simply hadn’t thought. The entirety of the ball, the hair on the back of his neck had stood up—his usual reaction to her presence—and he had felt the fangs against him, and what different forms he could take. A mouse. An asp, biting her ankle as she passed. A bird flying through the door as it was opened, and the drinks were passed around. But then he had taken a goblet like all the rest.

And then there had been a moment more where he had, in a blind panic, continued his thoughts of trying to flee. The last bit of choice that he had. And then it all stopped flowing, his blood turned to sludge, like the pudding. And then it stopped completely, and he was weighted to the ground, in a way he hadn’t felt for a very long time.

And then it was over.

He blinked, and looked up. Amarantha had her cup in her hand, and gave him a knowing look. She said nothing the rest of the meal, only that she’d see him for the next one, instructing the guards to take him away, lingering, looking at him, and eating. Blood dripping down her chin.

Before Feyre had come, he had assumed the method of his torture would be what it had been for forty-nine years. Clare hadn’t been enough. Amarantha had been so disappointed, she had brought all of the High Lords close to her just to see. And then he hadn’t performed for her. Or them. He was sure not being in their Courts as he had been, they longed to see it. Never mind Rhysand.

It would be his people. One by one. Until she got to Lucien. Or maybe he would be first. Amarantha was patient—she had waited over five hundred years, after all. But she was so close now, she could taste it. And her patience would begin to thin. He hadn’t known when. She had let Lucien retain some of his power, as if it had meant anything other than to emphasize what she could take away. And now Feyre had returned, and it was all so easy now.

He would not survive past the third trial. Nothing of what he held dear would, if the riddle wasn’t solved. And then they’d be hanging, and he would become very quiet, he would retreat very far, until he was inside the stone, and his body some other thing that she manipulated, like he was at Calan Mai. It would be him laid out on the table, pierced through with gold.

It was there, he could feel it. The fire and the drums. Settling against the stone. Amarantha got word Feyre was still unconscious in her cell. And the celebrations continued. Whatever the other Courts spoke of, he was not privy to. They would not risk getting close to him, or interfering with Amarantha’s plans. Hours and hours sitting with her, and listening to her talk, and her poking, and prodding. And not knowing.

That was part of it too. The not knowing. If Feyre suffered, if Amarantha’s monsters were being sent to her. And him tethered to her side, not allowed to do anything but think, and endure the touches, and her laughter, and the rotting on the wall. To only know her, to only recognize her voice, and inhale her scent, and the gold of her crown in the firelight blinding his vision at angles.

And he still selfishly looked for Lucien in the crowd. Before Feyre, they were to come up with a plan. He was not allowed much freedom even before Feyre returned, but now—now there was no way to communicate. Division was so vital to Amarantha’s plans. Yet he looked for Lucien all the same.

After the pomp and circumstance of his arrival. The removal of the power he had during the curse, kicking in his legs, forcing him to his knees—Lucien had sought out his mother. Tamlin had encouraged him to spend most of his time with her—as much as he could—if only to get him out of Amarantha’s sights as an obvious target. He couldn’t even comfort Lucien of the pain of seeing his family again—a pain which Rhysand had made sure to rub in his face—but which Lucien would have hidden anyway, in light of everything. But the next time he had seen him, the mark of it was as clearly etched on him as his scar.

And Amarantha had thought he would be fooled by giving Lucien a fraction of power. Like a mask that only covered half of his face. The illusion of choice. The poison hidden in wine.

As if, after drinking it, anyone would ever believe her again. He saw it now, watching everyone. Watching Rhysand drink, and mingle. Seeming to enjoy himself. The image of refined, confident grace. It was the same as when he had watched him in his youth.

Rhysand had been there, too, when he had been cursed again, already bowing to her. Ever the shadow, lingering, creeping along the floor.

She was sorry, she had said. She was making amends. It was to honor him. Lucien had wanted to go after her again, but Tamlin had restrained him. Instead they had attended in a sort of defiance, a mockery of what Amarantha had claimed the masquerade was—the masks to not make Lucien self-conscious—but that only highlighted her brutality more. It was on everyone’s faces, staring back at him.

He remembered when he had put on the emerald and gold. The masks were supposed to honor his shapeshifting abilities. Everyone wore a different animal face. Lucien’s fox, a ram, an owl. And so had he. The person who was afraid he wouldn’t be able to face Amarantha himself without making it worse, who dreading being alone with her, and sent Lucien in his stead—that was his real form. The beast. The elegant, but plain, mask of a High Lord—that was the shift.

He drew a sharp intake of breath that he quickly cut off, hoping she wouldn’t notice. But he could see her adjusting herself in her seat slightly next to him. They had both noticed. Lucien. Tamlin moved his eyes around as if he were Jurian in the ring, trying to get his attention. Breathing again a little when he did. Lucien glanced in Amarantha’s direction before beginning to move towards them, when Tamlin shook his head slightly.

It was in the eyes. And he tried to communicate everything to Lucien through them.

He waited for the recognition; in flesh and metal, he got it. Though he seemed to protest, his lips a thin line, Lucien nodded, and disappeared into the crowd.

When he next looked into the goblet, fire flickering around him, the wine was thick and syrupy, and running down Lucien’s face. He was covered in it. Onto his neck, his tunic. It looked like half of his face had been torn off. He couldn’t tell at first. And Lucien had struggled to breathe, and to look at him, and that’s when he’d seen a hole where an eye should have been. And he had thrown up.

“Lucien didn’t come greet us last night,” Amarantha said, in a sing-song voice. “He’s becoming quite shy, isn’t he?”

He looked up. She smiled to herself, not looking at him, but enjoying a bit of beef that was nearly bleeding, before tearing off a piece in her mouth, the juices running down her chin.

The next night, he saw Lucien again, repeating the signal not to approach. Lucien once more glanced at Amarantha before giving him a weak smile, and nodding. Tamlin closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a sigh of relief. When he opened his eyes again, Lucien was gone.

The next meal, when he looked into the cup, it was Feyre’s blood, pouring from her nose, running down her chin.

He did not see, or hear much, after that. He was kept in his cell, suffering sleepless nights, listening pathetically at the door. He saw them bleeding, over and over. He saw black eyes wreathed in shadow, sad blue eyes looking to him desperately. A hole where an eye should have been.

Amarantha was silent at their meals, apart from the loud chewing, and slurping, and swallowing. She dressed provocatively, letting the juices run down her neck, onto her chest. Looking at him and licking her lips, her eyes running over his body, so that he felt he wasn’t wearing anything at all. Not even his mask.

It was a shock, days later, when she slammed her hand on the table. She said nothing still, though, only sat back, grinning, drinking from her cup.

He was summoned earlier than usual from his room after that. Amarantha was waiting for him, her gown glittering red. He could see behind her eyes, that they were about to play a game, and dread filled him, and a coldness. It was not the full moon quite yet. Maybe she had already become bored. Maybe it would be one of those tasks she had mentioned that would be between the trials. They had made a deal, though. Feyre would have months, Amarantha couldn’t kill her yet.

But there were other things she could do.

When they entered the throne room and sat, he looked around again. No Feyre. And no Lucien.

But then. As Amarantha settled in her seat, she signaled the guards. Not soon after, he could smell her. And then he took her in, for just a moment, knowing if he caught her eye, he would falter. She was covered in blood, and dirt. Lucien had helped her, that he could see. But she had already lost so much weight.

“You look positively dreadful.” She turned to him. “Wouldn’t you say she’s taken a turn for the worse?”

There was a roaring in his ears. He could hardly hear her, he could hardly see anything, but red.

“You know,” she went on, echoing. “I couldn’t sleep last night, and I realized why this morning.” The look she had had at their morning meal. The gleam in her eyes. “I don’t know your name. If you and I are going to be such close friends for the next three months, I should know your name, shouldn’t I?”

Silence. Feyre was learning, at least.

“Come now, pet. You know my name—isn’t it fair I know yours?”

He shifted his gaze slightly, seeing the Attor approach. They would beat her again, then, until she spoke.

“After all,” Amarantha continued, indicating Clare with a wave of her hand, “you’ve already learned the consequences of giving false names. Rhysand—“

No. It wouldn’t be the Attor. He stared at nothing, his heart struggling inside him. He had wondered, alone in his cell, when it would happen. When Rhysand would get his chance. He strolled in now casually, stopping next to Feyre. Not looking towards him, but making sure he got as close as he possibly could without touching her—yet.

Rhysand bowed, and he felt a wave of nausea.

“Is this the girl you saw at Tamlin’s estate?”

He brushed his tunic before responding. “I suppose.”

“But did you or did you not tell me that girl was the one you saw?”

Rhysand continued his casual unbothered act, putting his hands in his pockets. “Humans are all the same to me.”

Liar. He knew very well, even now, Rhysand did not think that. But it was the smart thing to say—playing into Amarantha’s view of humans as little more than livestock—than meat. Predictably, she gave a satisfied smile in response.

“And what about faeries?” She went on.

“Amongst a sea of mundane faces, yours is a work of art.”

He felt he really would throw up. Rhysand was laying it on a bit thick, even for him. He wondered when he would start speaking like that, simpering and bowing. And repeated to himself that he’d rather die. Feyre would not see him stoop to that.

Yet he knew how hollow that promise to himself was as soon as he thought it.

“What’s her name?” She asked Rhysand.

“How would I know? She lied to me.”

So she’d have him go into her mind, then. And he would have to hope all he took from her was her name. It all seemed too simple, though. It didn’t explain the look Amarantha had given him earlier.

“If you’re inclined to play games, girl, then I suppose we can do this the fun way.”

She snapped her fingers, and the Attor went into the crowd. He flicked his eyes and saw the flash of red. And his heart stopped, realizing, stupidly late, what she had planned to do. What he had known she was going to do.

The Attor forced Lucien to his knees, and Amarantha instructed Rhysand to hold his mind.

He went as still as Lucien became. He was so close to breaking. His mind raced with what he could do, or say, that would not make it worse, for either Lucien or Feyre. He could think of nothing.

He flicked his eyes again at movement from the crowd. Lucien’s brothers had made their way to the front, nearly licking their lips in anticipation.

“Her name, Emissary?”

Lucien looked his way, briefly, and closed his eyes, steeling himself. Rhysand smiled at his side, the same slathering anticipation.

Silence, only broken by Amarantha’s sigh. “I thought you would have learned your lesson, Lucien. Though this time your silence will damn you as much as your tongue.”

Lucien. He glared at his brothers. Their mother was in the crowd, watching this. He knew. And they didn’t even bother to hide their elation. It was a familiar look.

She addressed him this time. “Her name?”

She knew he wouldn’t give it. Quickly, she followed his gaze to the brothers.

“I don’t suppose your handsome brothers know, Lucien.”

“If we did, Lady, we would be the first to tell you,” the eldest, Eris, replied.

They seemed to have a rapport. Amarantha smiled, and lifted a hand to Rhysand to start.

It was nothing. It would be nothing. He could see, as he had with Feyre, the moment when Rhysand held Lucien. The groan at the struggle against it. It was so quick, whether human or fae. The power Rhysand had managed to maintain, that he himself no longer had. He felt the air push against his lips, and—

“Feyre!” Her shout echoed through the hall. “My name is Feyre!”

Lucien dropped to the floor, his brothers frowning in disappointment. And he hoped she would not care or notice that Feyre had only given her first name.

“Feyre…an old name—from our earlier dialects. Well, Feyre— I promised you a riddle.”

He looked at Lucien, who still reeling from Rhysand’s attack, as Amarantha recited it, then repeated it. He closed his eyes for a beat, realizing the answer—what Feyre had not been able to say before, when she had looked into his eyes. Opening them again, he saw her struggle, scrunching her brow. There was a smattering of laughter, the loudest from the brothers, having finally gotten their entertainment. He wanted to leap out of his chair, and tear through each one of them. The desire was so strong in him, the tension between it and his waning power so great, that his body froze; he was more inside himself than ever. But then Feyre looked at him, and he remembered himself in time for her to be taken away.

At their next meal, Amarantha looked indistinguishable from Lucien’s brothers. One of Eris’ hounds, scenting blood. Slowly, though, as the brothers had, she began to frown. Once again, he was not giving her sport. She finally began to eat, washing everything down with wine before finally speaking.

“Not very bright, is she? I suppose she would have to be dull, though. To come here. The way she struggled to think. The look on her face—she almost seemed to be in more pain than Lucien.” She laughed. “Perhaps she was. When they try to form an intelligent thought—the way their faces screw up—it’s almost adorable.”

He ignored her as usual, but her gaze was heavy on him.

“Are you particularly troubled tonight, my Tamlin?” She set down her fork, leaning forward, narrowing her eyes at him. “Yes,” she said, almost whispering, a snake-like hiss. “I imagine you must be quite troubled. You chose her. You could have given me the name. Only a first name—a courtesy to her, really. So I could properly address her. Nothing more to it than that. And yet you would have let Rhysand tear apart everything Lucien was. Just like that—“ She snapped her fingers. “And you know how much Rhysand would have enjoyed it.”

Yes. He knew that very well.

“All for a girl you could not have met more than a few months ago, you would have sacrificed a loyal friend—of centuries. Whom you sent to me in your place all those years ago, who obviously risked his life to heal her. Powers I’ve allowed him to retain, if you remember. Feyre must really have you in her grip.”

She feigned amusement, but he could hint the anger in her voice—for a moment, as she gripped her cup. Then she seemed to realize, forcing a smile.

“All for this human love—“ She put her hand over her mouth, chuckling. “I mustn’t say that word too loud. She might hear. Did you really think she would be able to answer the riddle? Do you think she will survive the first trial? The full moon is almost here. Maybe I’ll let Lucien’s brothers have a little fun with her first, before I tear her apart.”

He stuffed meat and wine into his mouth, to keep it full, to not bite back. To bite on something. To feel blood filling his mouth. He refused to look at her, but he could see her out of the corner of his eye, sitting back, satisfied.

That night, locked in his room, he screamed into his pillow.

~~~~~

He made himself eat the next few days. He needed to have as much strength as possible to act if he needed to. Or to at least give himself the illusion he could do something. He tried to sleep, but it was fitful—all he could see when he closed his eyes was Lucien on the floor, and toothy, feral grins, and the licking of lips, and meat pierced through with gold. And blue eyes looking to him.

In bed, he grabbed at his hair, and pulled. It wasn’t right. She shouldn’t be here, and it was all happening, and his mind was a blank. Another riddle, that he could not solve. Everything he had done had made it worse, nothing would help. He had no daemati powers to reach her—he had no power at all. And he knew it was part of the game, and he would not let Amarantha win, but there was nothing there, he sweat with the effort, he was as held by her as Lucien had been with Rhysand. And he couldn’t be.

When the full moon came, he felt he would howl at it.

Instead he dressed, and ate with Amarantha in silence. Then walked with her, through endless halls, until they emerged into a giant cavern. He slipped slightly on the mud underfoot, as they continued to a raised platform in the middle. As if he were walking to the gallows. A crowd greeted them, and the six other High Lords waited on the platform, bowing as she approached. She sat down, and he dutifully sat beside her, as always.

“We’re going to have so much fun today, Tamlin.”

He looked around at the animated crowd.

“It probably isn’t familiar to you—you were just a child—but your father must have spoken of it. How we’d make them fight one of us, or—and this was always more fun—each other.”

Yes, he knew very well all of the abominable things Amarantha and his father had done together. He’d never let himself forget.

“We’ve managed to find entertainment in your absence, of course—“ She glanced around at the other High Lords. “Those Children who practically walk right into my lap. But this—there’s been nothing quite like this in five hundred years. It’s how it always should have been. You by my side. The humans nothing more than playthings, or beasts of burden. Or nothing at all.”

He continued looking around at the cackling, hollering, salivating crowds, nearly foaming at the mouth with anticipation of the slaughter they expected. The spectacle that he had provided for them.

He was in hell.

“They’ve all made bets on whether Feyre will survive. I’m afraid there’s not much faith in that human. Would you like to place a bet?”

He stared past everyone, to the entrance, waiting, not listening to anything else Amarantha had to say. He was only reminded of her presence when he saw Feyre enter, and there was a hand on his thigh, Amarantha running it up and down until she rested it on his knee. He drew a sharp intake of breath that he could not hear. It was so loud. There was no way out.

Feyre was thrown to the muddy earth, and everything became still again. He was aware of speaking, of something flying, of Feyre being taken away.

“Rhysand tells me you’re a huntress.”

She was far away from him.

“Hunt this.”

And then the screaming, sharp teeth, licking of lips.

“Run.”

He could not look. He could not be a spectator, a ghoul. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple. She had to face the wyrm. And they were all watching, and it was just as it had been five hundred years ago.

She was meat, served on a table.

He closed his eyes, and opened them. He had to remember. She was a huntress. The Suriel. Getting him caught in a snare. Even Andras. Every time he could think that she had shown strength. And there were so many. He repeated them, in his mind—Suriel, snare, Andras—as she moved through the maze below them. The roars of the crowd grew louder as the danger grew, softer with disappointment as she skirted it. And he couldn’t help but start to focus in. As she disappeared, as she reappeared, as they hissed in disappointment, as they cheered. Amarantha’s hold on his knee the hold on his power. He began to struggle to breathe, it was unbearably hot, he was soaked in sweat, the stone squeezed the center of his heart, this couldn’t happen, this wasn’t happening—

“TO YOUR LEFT!”

He blinked, and there was a squeeze on his leg in confirmation. He didn’t dare look at her. But he could hear, and see again. He leaned forward slightly, feeling her holding him back, and looked around. Everyone was staring at Feyre, wide-eyed. The mood in the cavern had shifted. He parted his lips slightly, and everything, and everyone, stopped for a moment as Feyre made a leap of faith. The scream she made when she landed reverberated through the earth, tearing through the wyrm. It was dead.

Gasps bounced off the chamber walls, quickly swelling to cheers. The grip on him loosened, and was gone. He felt a refreshing breeze cool his brow, and forgot for a moment his fears, watching Feyre stalk towards them, waiting to make the final blow.

“Well,” Amarantha said, pursing her lips. “I suppose anyone could do that.”

The garden of bones would suggest otherwise, he thought, suddenly remembering everything that had happened. How strong she was, how smart. How brave. Lucien flashed through his mind in another frantic moment, but he was too fixated on Feyre, who lifted the bone she held, throwing it with all of her strength at Amarantha’s feet. It lodged itself into the mud, soiling her white dress. He almost forgot himself, tempted to let out an exhausted, crazed laugh.

“Naughty,” Amarantha said, after a pause.

He wanted to laugh and laugh. Feyre did not bow. Did not falter, or cower. Anyone else would have been killed for what she did. And she knew, and she didn’t care. Her bright soul blazed through her mask of mud and rot. And he was filled with love, and pride, and shame.

He paid no attention to Amarantha, not until he heard Rhysand’s name, and Feyre was led away by the imps.

And he remembered that there was another bone on her that he could see. Her arm. It was broken. She had broken it in the fall.

Lucien.

Amarantha settled accounts, and whispered to Rhysand. Then looked down at her dress.

“That little bitch,” she said, almost under her breath. “I’ll have to change into another. Tamlin.”

She held out a hand, and he was compelled to take it, and accompany her out.

The pounding in his head, and the heat in his face returned, as the crowd began to disperse, talking animatedly. The spectacle was over. A new one was starting. There was a determination in Amarantha’s step, as she regained her composure, a smile blooming on her face. She said nothing, though—not needing to. They both knew what was coming.

Feyre’s blood filled him. Rhysand’s cool grin. Lucien reeling on the floor. He willed his legs to work, until they returned to the throne room. She didn’t bother to change yet, though, the mud beginning to dry on her dress.

Everyone was gathered again. Rhysand stood nearby, the same faint smile, the same predatory look in his eyes. Perhaps he was imagining it, though. They hadn’t said two words to each other since he had arrived. Rhysand only acknowledged him when Amarantha brought him up, and even then it was the same bored, disinterested, dismissive air. But he knew the truth of it at Solstice. The fury in Rhysand’s eyes as he had told him to bow. Deeper. Until he was almost buried in the earth. And even then, not far enough. He hadn’t wondered why Rhysand didn’t tell her Clare wasn’t the one before. He was playing his own game.

It was all a game. All another masquerade, over and over and over. One that was a choice, but was not. One he had been dancing for centuries, his mask of nobility barely containing the monster underneath.

They sat side by side. Amarantha indulging herself, drawing it out, as she always did. Rhysand would make it so quick.

She made a motion with her hand, and the Attor went into the crowd. And it was gone, all of it. His strategy, his future.

“Amarantha,” he said quietly.

The bone sticking out of her arm. The wound festering.

Lucien was brought before them. A defiant look in his russet eye. Tamlin could even sense it in the gold. That Lucien could see through her, as Feyre had.

“Look at what you’ve done,” Amarantha started. “I told you your silence would condemn you, and so you turn around and speak foolishly again. I thought you were the fox-tongued courtier. Who knew when it was wise to speak, and the right things to say. Isn’t that why Tamlin appointed you? Yet it seems you have been overestimated. A pity.”

“Amarantha,” he said more loudly, a shudder going through him.

“I’m sorry, did someone say something?”

He swallowed bile, and looked at her through lowered lids. “Your majesty.”

“I’m being addressed, it seems. Who is addressing me, then?”

He breathed in and out, deeply. Lucien glanced at him.

“Please. Spare him.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you—Rhysand, can you hear him?”

“No,” he said, not trying to hide his amusement. “I don’t think I do.”

“It’s this ear,” she said, touching it with her right hand. She turned to him. “I think it would be much clearer if you were on the ground in front of me. Don’t you, Rhysand?”

“Yes. Much clearer.”

He stood up, his legs feeling shaky, and swallowed, and bowed before her.

“Please,” he said, lowering his head.

“Ah. That’s much better. I can hear you clearly now. Go on.”

“Please spare him. I beg you.”

“You see my dress. Someone has to pay.”

“He wasn’t thinking. It won’t happen again.”

“No. It won’t. Rhysand—“

He looked up into her eyes. “Please, Amarantha.”

She looked down at him, triumphant. “Oh, don’t worry, my Tamlin. I’m not going to do anything to him.” She lifted her hand again, and the Attor came forward, holding a whip. “You are.”

He looked from the Attor, to her, and back. Knowing, but unable to comprehend.

“W-what—“

She beckoned him. “You may rise.”

He stood, staring at the whip.

“Tamlin?”

He made himself look at her.

“Twenty lashes, High Lord.”

He shook his head, involuntarily. “N-no.”

“I think that’s rather generous, considering anyone else in his place would be up on the wall next to Clare. If that’s what you’d like—“

“No!” He nearly shouted. “No.”

“Well then.” She indicated him to take the whip with that same toothy grin. He reached out a hand, staring at it. Unable to move.

“It’s alright, Tam,” Lucien said. “I knew what I was doing. I don’t regret it.”

“I would err on the side of silence in the future, Lucien,” Amarantha said. “If only for your mother’s sake.”

He looked. The brothers emerged again, smiling as they had before. Eris gave him a look of pure hatred.

“String him up.”

Lucien was stripped of his tunic, and a bit was put in his mouth. Then his arms were shackled above him.

Tamlin stared at Lucien’s bare back.

“Well?” Amarantha said. “I don’t have all night.”

Everything in him resisted. He was far away again. He remembered his fear, long before they wore masks, long before he drank the wine. The fear of Lucien remaining in his Court. And Lucien’s guilt, and despair when he had arrived. And Tamlin had sworn to protect him. With everything he had, and everything he was. And he held it in his hand, now, what it had all come to.

Just as it should have been, five hundred years ago.

His lips trembled. It would help nothing to draw this out. Only another spectacle. Another masque. Another kind of torture. Lucien braced himself. And Tamlin heard the horrible crack of the whip against Lucien’s back. It was as if he had torn open his own flesh. He realized Amarantha had given him more power. And lessened Lucien’s. Even the first blow drew blood, that filled his nostrils, that he could taste.

Blood running down her chin, onto her chest, licking her lips.

Another.

He heard a slight groan, but otherwise Lucien was silent, and stoic.

Again, and again.

Lines of blood crisscrossing down his back.

A line down his face. A bloody pit where his eye should have been.

He swallowed vomit, and a tear loosed itself down his face. He had to get it over with. As fast as possible. But his arms didn’t want to work.

“Twelve more to go,” Amarantha said.

He heard a slight whimper from the otherwise silent crowd. Lucien’s mother.

Don’t draw this out.

He glanced at Rhysand, and his cool grin of amusement had deepened. Their eyes met, for a moment. And he continued.

Blood filling his vision. He could only see red. Drink red, feast on red. Blood and flesh and life pulsing. Running down her nose, from open throats, leaking from ears. Over and over and over.

Rhysand’s gaze was a brand on him, and they didn’t have to speak mind-to-mind to know what he was thinking—

Everything you touch you destroy.

@tamlinweek 2024 Day Five: Masquerade

#tamlin week 2024 #tamlin week #tamlin #acotar

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songofthesibyl · 13 days

Text

The Rite of Spring

A Tamlin POV of his first Calan Mai as High Lord. Note that while there is nothing explicit, this does focus on the darker aspects of Calan Mai.

He had felt it increasing, for weeks. In a land, a Court, of ever-increase, it had seemed impossible. Instead of movement, everything was always in a sort of stasis, blossoms opening in suspended animation. When he had become High Lord, everything had been waning in the world, and there was a break, a tear in the fabric of the Court, he had run through in a kind of madness—he hardly remembered those first few weeks, but for the blood and dirt under his nails, in his mouth. He had not even known what he had hurt, who he had killed, after Rhys’ father. All the blood, all the skin, all the smoke, melded together, as all of his forms melded together into one Beast. His honed strength over the years rising above, a mighty oak. And his powerful jaws—he could bite through anything, tear through anything. His entire Court he had torn through.

You have to start slow, he had said. Worship them. Gentle caresses. And your tongue…

His new form was not meant for that. Violent, jerky movements, stomping across the earth, digging in with claws while the thorns bit back. Retracted, then sank in again.

The blood dripping from his mouth. He had torn out his throat. Then the smoke in his nose, dulling his senses. And a wild running through the wood. He had not thought he would do this. He had not thought he would ever have to do this. And the world had been waning, and so he had thought he could rest, and the height of it at Solstice, the great suspension low in the sky, but it was not the hibernation of animals—like the bat. As soon as it stopped it began—the rising, and the ever-increase, and he had felt it ever since, his temperature rising, and his heart beginning to race. Subtly at first, and unnoticeable in its increase, like the sun, but then in dramatic bursts, a palpitation. He had not noticed when a week passed, or a month. And he had observed Nynsar, and knew there were only six weeks left. And the increase got faster and faster, the suspended animation a sudden rush of blossoms, of rising stalks and unfurling petals, that he had thought he understood, but nothing like the thorns that had pierced his body and dragged him down and his heartbeat the pounding of his paws on the dirt, and breaking it up as he was dragged under. When he became a part of it forever. As it sucked the blood from him, that he could taste as he ran his tongue over his teeth, and the canines retracting, then lengthening, then retracting again.

Slow at first, he had said. And then you go faster.

Now his heart raced, and it was the height—the suspension again, but it was the quickening too, the ever-increasing, over and over. He had not been told it would be like this. No one had told him. Everyone’s couplings added to the increase, the energy multiplying, but he had not felt it before. He had stayed far away from the cave. He could hear the screams, he could hear her screams, he could not do it. He had stayed far away, in his bedroom, hands over his ears, and only the drums rattling the foundations beneath him. But he was not connected. It was all so far away then.

And now it was here. He looked out wildly, only a loincloth covering him, that he had insisted on, though there had been giggles, and Ianthe tut-tutting him. She had been so good in these first few months of his reign. He trusted her. But everything was starting to become shapeless, and vague. They had not said it started days before. They had not said it would be slow, and then fast, and that before he knew it, it would be here.

“Milady…he keeps shaking.”

Two priestesses held their brushes, in suspended animation, as the paint, slick and slimy and blue-black, was drying, caking like mud in matted fur. Smudging as the sweat poured from his body, as if willing the paint away, as if rejecting it, rejecting this.

“Tamlin,” Ianthe said, sighing. “We have been preparing for this day for weeks. Every step. It is…overwhelming, this magic. The magic that ties you to this land. I know you have struggled to adjust. My offer is still open…”

That she could be his first. So he would know.

“No…” He shook his head. “We’re…friends.”

“Which is exactly why I offer.”

“No.”

She nodded in acquiescence. “Very well.”

“He won’t stay still…”

“It is but one night. You do this for your land. Your people. Your magic binds you to this land…”

She kept on sermonizing. He had heard this many times. From her, in books. He knew everything about it that she might know. And more, that she would never understand.

“As High Lord, it is your obligation…”

Yes, he was bound to the land. As High Lord. Bound. They held him, their hands were on him, the brush against his skin. His eyes blazed. He had to hold in himself, who wanted to defend. He was predator, and prey.

Blue-black swirls on his skin.

“The land will wither….”

Every bit of energy to hold them in, his claws, and his fangs, and the fur to cover himself. He strained with the effort. And they kept coming at him, dabbing his forehead, around his eyes, using magic, soothing. Brushing over his skin like a glaze over a stuck pig.

“You won’t even be aware, mostly. You will enter the cave with your chosen—“

He suddenly became aware of himself. “My chosen?”

She pressed her lips together.

“The Maiden. She has chosen the regeneration, the abundance of the land, too. As I said, I am perfectly willing—“

“I said no.”

“Do not feel guilty. It is sweet of you to care. But this is the way it is, in every Court. Night as well…”

He glared at her, but she avoided his gaze.

“It is the way it has always been. The way it will always be.”

Until there was a head rolling on the ground, and brains leaking out of skulls, and blood in his mouth. Until there was a tearing in him, until he scattered in every direction, until the Cauldron broke in pieces, until the very foundations of the earth were torn asunder, and the seas flooded in.

They dabbed at his sweat, and reapplied. Ianthe sighed again.

And suddenly he became very still. He was naked, and crouched on the dirt, and his eyes were closed. And they all left him alone. And then her robe over him.

And Ianthe sighed again, with contentment this time, with relief. And he felt a coolness. And his skin was suddenly very far away from him. It was not his at all.

“You are a good male. You will be a good High Lord. You care for your people.”

“Yes.”

“In doing this you will reassure them, you will feed them, you will guarantee their livelihoods for the year to come.”

“Yes.”

“You show how you care for them.”

“Yes.”

“It is a good thing you are doing.”

“Yes.”

“And at the Tithe at the beginning of the year, they will return it to you. They will give thanks. It will be an exchange. You and your people.”

“Yes.”

Yes.

And the screaming. And how good it had felt, and how good he had made her feel.

It’s so easy to make you blush. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s all natural.

“And it won’t hurt her?”

She demurred. “It won’t be her completely. And it won’t be you.”

“You said I would be aware. I read—“

“Yes. To an extent. That’s how it takes your preference into account. To make sure it is as successful—as fruitful—as possible.

“Will I…impregnate her?”

“You impregnate the land, Tamlin. Remember? This is a magical act. This sacrifice. On both your parts. It regenerates the land.”

The priestesses wiped their own brows, standing back. He felt it drying. Someone’s skin, somewhere.

“Thank you,” she said. “That will be all.”

They curtsied to her, and left. She moved closer to him.

“Magnificent. You will make a fine Hunter.”

I don’t want you throwing your life away at those camps. You were meant for so much more.

“I…of course, cannot fully understand, I admit that. I’m sure it must feel…scary. But once you do it, that will be it for the year. You have felt it increasing, haven’t you?”

“…Yes.” He could not deny it.

“Over time, you will have control. It will not seem so daunting.”

Over years. Decades. Centuries. More. He could get used to anything, he was sure.

“I promise you, Tamlin. It will get easier. And then, you can rest. The ease of summer…but this is the Spring Court. The energies—even if they are in every Court. They are never as heightened as in their home.”

“Yes.”

She had arranged everything for him. He hadn’t known what to do. But there it was, outside, as the sun dipped below, and the fire spread, and his Court caught. He could smell it. The burning. She had shown him the preparations. He trusted her. He did. The pelt on the ground, and hawthorn branches and the oak, and the ivy. And feasting, and where they would line up on either side, waiting, watching, smelling, knowing the time. When it happened.

You won’t even know, she had said, in reassurance. It won’t be you walking into the cave. And you’ll be deep inside. They won’t be able to see. But they’ll know. And once it’s done, they can…add to the Rite. Strengthen it. And you can rest.

Ianthe stayed with him until the paint dried. And then left the room, waiting while he dressed himself. He couldn’t bear to look at his skin. At his hands, and what they would do.

My sweet boy.

You know I can’t just stay here, writing poems and playing the fiddle.

It was his punishment. He understood. An eternity of this, until they came for him. Until the end of time. He strapped on his bandolier. The last piece of himself remaining. And the reminder of why he was here, forever attached to him.

He set out, as he had that night. His heart began to slow. And he realized—it was not the height of life. Of fertility. He was dying. The drumbeats were his heart, straining against it, feeling it, resisting it. But he had long known he was only a killer. It had been revealed that night. And the wings burning.

No escape now.

An eternity of this.

The drums pounded in his head. Underneath his feet. It was the breaking up of the earth. It was the violence. He was its violence, incarnate. He understood that now.

They looked to him, and he looked back, the lights and sounds blurring. Ianthe sermonizing. One of them was the Maiden. And he would sink his claws in her, and it would all start over again.

But there was no stopping it now. The drums led him on, they beckoned, they commanded. Luring him, he realized.

As if in a trap. As if he were Hunter—and hunted.

His heart struggled fiercely. He was a deer, shot with an arrow. Struggling to get up on thin legs. Wobbly, straining, crying out helplessly. Until the struggle finally stopped. It was here, white, its antlers forever growing, piercing him, digging in, there was no escape.

It had felt good, when they had praised his fighting skills. How obedient, and hard-working he was at the camps. Humble. None of the airs of being a High Lord’s son. Not like his brothers. He had embraced it. Being one of them. It wasn’t the life he would have chosen. But he could live with it. And they laughed around the campfire, and he would make a good warrior some day. Ianthe’s father had been one of his training officers. Had marveled at his skill with the blades.

He had been instructed in everything to do.

And he took the knife, and easily slit the animal’s throat, as its antlers gored him. And he realized it was him who was bleeding, who was dying. The drums were far in the distance. He clutched at himself, but it was not his hand. This one was covered in paint, and it held a knife, while he was on knobby knees, shaking. Everything blurred. He could not feel the drumbeats against the earth anymore. He could not breathe. He fell to the earth, crouching in the dirt, as his heart slowed, and the sound of it got fainter in his ears. Until he could hear nothing, and see nothing, anymore. And he realized he was dead.

When he woke up, he was still hard.

Everything was sore, and his head ached, and heart raced, and his skin was covered in sweat. He had nothing on, he realized, and sat up, holding out his hands. The paint had smeared—he looked down at himself—it was smeared everywhere. Everything was swirling, his heart pounded—he got up, falling to the floor immediately in a heap of disconnected limbs, a baby calf. And threw up on the floor.

He felt an overwhelming sense of shame, and fear. At his hardness, at the paint smeared, at the vomit on the floor. At what his hands had done. At his nakedness. At everyone seeing what he was. He couldn’t imagine ever showing himself to his Court again.

But they would come for him, and they could not see him like this. He breathed in, and out. The magic, he realized, was still there. He still felt it inside him. He smacked his lips, and sucked on his tongue. His mouth was dry. He shivered for a moment. There were flashes, of blood running down a neck, the sensation of his fangs extending. A heartbeat that was not his own.

And screaming.

He wondered what had happened to the Maiden. If he had killed her. He was so strong.

There was a moment of panic, and his heart raced anew. He had killed once that night. He knew. There was blood under his fingernails. He didn’t recognize the taste in his mouth.

He forced himself up, finally seeing the fresh set of clothes laid out for him. He rolled his eyes. A white blouse, and green pants. Dressy, and casual, and festive. A sign that the day would be gentler now. Young females would collect dew upon the sun’s wakening, and weave flower crowns. Feast on honeycomb and lemon cakes. Drink strawberry wine. Have picnics on the grass. Celebrate everything that was Spring. When the girls grew up, they would be lining up at the cave too. He couldn’t picture who he had chosen—no. Not him. He stood still for a moment, leaning against the chest of drawers, trying to concentrate—but whenever he did, the effort made him nauseous again. He could feel him fighting against himself. And he let go, everything turning hazy again.

He realized he really didn’t want to remember.

It was a defeat, to cede that night to whatever had taken hold of him, to accept that it had. But it was all he could do. He covered the vomit with the blouse, and noticed in the bathroom that a bath had been drawn for him, kept heated. Ianthe knew he would want to be alone for a bit.

It still bothered him somewhat that he didn’t remember getting back. All the things he could have done along the way. He wondered if Ianthe had helped him back, if he had been too out of it.

He walked to the windows, the sunlight struggling to get in, and opened a curtain to allow in only a sliver. It was brilliantly sunny, and warm. He could feel the joy, and ease of his people across the rolling landscapes, and meadows, and glens. He could feel it in himself, too, as much as he hated to admit it. The sun shone too brightly in his eyes, and he hated it for imposing itself so boldly on his vision, exposing his nakedness, when he longed to remain hidden. But there was no denying what he was. And he could not help but feel relief at the caress of the warmth against his skin, entering through his hand as he placed it against the window.

The bath.

He remembered, letting go of the curtain, and went into the bathroom, closing the door and sliding into the tub. The warmth of the water enveloped him, and he let out a sigh of relief, his muscles loosening, melting. It was medicinal—he could smell the herbs—rosemary, lemon balm and mint, lavender and cedar. Rose petals floated on top, swimming around him.

He dipped his head underneath, wondering for a moment how long he could stay under—how long it would take for it all to stop. But some instinct—his own buoyancy—drew him back up. When his head emerged, he noticed the bath water—it had turned black, the blue tones almost completely obscured. He stood up, and looked at his body, his hair sticking to his neck and chest—all the paint was gone. He stepped out—not a speck of paint was on him. The healing, purifying magic of the bath had done its work. The night had been washed from him. He shook the water from his hair, and dried his body, and put on his usual tunic and pants. He fumbled around for his bandolier, momentarily panicking until he found it again and put it on. No knives, though.

He looked around the room. The paint remained on the floor, his bed. It could never be removed completely, the stain from him. But it was over, and he felt the relief anew as he left his room. The pull of the earth had lessened somewhat. It would soon ease into the slow days of summer. But there would never be a longer time until he would have to endure another night like Fire Night, than today. And he stepped more lightly—almost with a sort of happiness, or whatever approaching it he imagined he could feel now—into the halls, down to the dining room. Ianthe was waiting, standing as he entered. And the shame was oily-slick on the back of his neck again, as if that was the one place the bath didn’t reach. He rubbed it with his hand, hailing her with a grunt.

“Tamlin,” she said warmly, smiling.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long. I know you have to return to the Temple.” He realized he was avoiding her eyes.

“Not at all. I’m here for you.”

“It’s almost noon, though.”

“You had a long night. Sit. Eat something.”

He was hungry. He looked down at the feast laid out before him—breads and cakes, eggs and bacon, berries with cream, fresh greens—disinterestedly, though, and only nibbled on some dandelion salad as she spoke.

“How are you feeling?”

“The bath you drew for me was nice. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“My room—“

“It will be taken care of, Tamlin. Don’t worry. We are all here for you.”

“What about…” He hesitated. “The female…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“She is back home. We will honor her at the Temple later today.”

“Is she…”

“She had no complaints.” She grinned. The look he gave her made her stifle it, though, and she cleared her throat. “You were good to her. She told me you asked if she was alright after. If it hurt. I thought that was very sweet.”

“I…I don’t remember saying that. I thought I was…it wasn’t me.”

“As I said, there is some awareness. In time, you may be able to retain more.”

He didn’t think he’d want to. The lightness of a moment ago began to fade in her presence. He was sinking down again.

“I don’t remember getting back here.”

“You walked. You wouldn’t let anyone help you.”

He had been naked when he woke up. He shivered. All the warmth had left him.

“Here.” She got up, and poured him a cup of tea. It seemed so fragile in his hand. He couldn’t imagine that he hadn’t hurt the female. He didn’t even think about what she had done to him, where she had touched. The paint was smeared everywhere. But his body wasn’t his own. Not anymore. He had to remember that.

“Tamlin,” she repeated gently, and he looked at her. “You have done your duty. Now you can spend the day relaxing, knowing your people will be fed for another year.”

And it would be returned in the Tithe. It was an exchange, you see. A give and take. You and the land. Your people and you.

She had no complaints.

“Over time,” she went on. “You will find your mate. I am sure of it. Your perfect match. Your equal in every way.”

He grabbed a honey cake, biting into it, letting the sweetness fill his mouth before he swallowed it.

“…And then you won’t have to worry about who the Maiden will be. It will be your mate. Just as it was with your father.”

“Yes,” he said, staring blankly at the abundance of food laid out before them. “Just like my father.”

@tamlinweek 2024 Day Four: Calan Mai

#tamlin week 2024 #tamlin week #tamlin #acotar

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songofthesibyl · 14 days

Text

Second Bloom

A Tamlin POV of Lucien’s early days in the Spring Court.

Lucien leaned back, closing his eyes, and breathed in deeply. “Incredible. I’ll never get used to this.”

“Maybe in a few decades.”

“Never.” He fell back until he was against the trunk of the crabapple tree, its pink and white blossoms framing his golden-brown skin, red hair, and green-and-yellow jacket. A vision. Tamlin had never seen someone look so at home in the Spring Court. Whatever pain he was in, for the moment his face was awash in tranquility. Not a mask. Tamlin felt he truly did feel at peace, for a moment. And he wanted that for him. It was just strange to see his Court through someone else’s eyes. Every day was a revelation.

A blossom came loose, and Lucien stuck out his tongue, letting it rest like a snowflake. After a moment, he closed his mouth around it, chewing it. And a memory was unlocked.

“My…mother. Used to make jam from the blossoms.”

“Apple dumplings,” Lucien replied. “In blackberry sauce.”

“Hmm?”

“My mother. When I was little…”

A wind picked up, swaying between them. The blossoms would never fall completely. Buds would not turn to ripening apples. Deep crimson, and green, and pink. Falling to the earth with a soft thud.

“We can get apples.”

“No.” Lucien launched himself off the tree trunk with his foot. “I’m ready for something different. Continue the tour. I want to see everything.”

They continued, walking leisurely through bluebell woods, carpets of periwinkle and violet. Oaks embraced by circlets of ivy, hawthorn tress whose scented white blossoms made Lucien scrunch up his nose in disappointment and distaste. Most of the time Tamlin merely pointed things out. He didn’t want to pry, and Lucien seemed content to take it all in. But the loneliness, and the sadness, were there, glimpsed at intervals as clouds passing, a shift in the wind. As the arc of the sun passed overhead, Lucien wiped his brow, and they walked into another wood of oak, birch, and beech, settling in amongst a sea of wild garlic. Lucien took off his coat and laid it on the ground, sitting on it and undoing the top button of his shirt. Tamlin hesitated a moment, seeing the shadow pass again. But the silence remained, and he joined him, sitting nearby and drawing up his knees to his chin, continuing to look at the world through Lucien’s eyes.

“The weather’s even more capricious than in Autumn,” Lucien said.

“Yes.” Winds of change, at a moment’s notice. He kept his coat on, shivering.

Lucien eyed him. “You always wear a bandolier?”

“I…” He seemed to notice these things. But he was not ready to talk on it yet, either. “Is it strange?”

Lucien only looked at him, shaking his head, sensing. “I was just curious.” He turned away, leaning forward into the garlic. “Can I?”

He sat up. “Go ahead. Anyone can forage here.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Just the garlic?”

He huffed a laugh. “No. The Court.”

“That’s different. My father—“ He stopped. “You have a Tithe here, right?” He gripped the stem, pulling it out in one quick motion.

“Yes,” he sighed. “We do. That doesn’t mean I own every inch of this land. I’m its caretaker, its protector. Its—“

Lucien took the stem of garlic, chewing on it. “Do you hunt those who can’t pay?”

“I don’t…” He looked down, idly pulling on the grass. “I don’t hunt people.”

Lucien looked at him, stopping what he was doing. “I was just joking. I don’t think you actually do.”

“Before you came here?”

“There were all sorts of rumors about you.”

“I’m sure.”

“But I don’t tend to care what other people think.”

He wanted to add that perhaps they were right, but thought better of it. The air was sweet, and mild, and after a moment of looking at him, Lucien settled into place, casually chewing on the garlic stem, then lying down on his coat and closing his eyes. Such ease and tranquility he remembered feeling once, in another Court, and there was a pang in his heart. But he could not join him, feeling ill at ease. Remembering what bound him here.

Instead he continued sitting upright, feeling tense, shivering at the wind whose sudden cold he had still not gotten used to. When the cold never settled in, when the warmth was always behind. When he thought there might be rest, for a moment.

“Do you ever relax?” Lucien said, his eyes still closed, lying on the ground.

“I’m High Lord.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I can’t. I don’t…have time.”

“You have time now.”

“Actually, we should probably get going. There has been a problem at the Wall.”

Lucien sat up. “What problem?”

“Humans, wanting to get in. Looking for the thin places.”

Lucien looked down, as if understanding their impulse.

“They’re not fae. They…it’s not that I mind them. But I…they don’t understand. They see a land of eternal Spring, and…anyway. Winter will be there soon enough. It’s understandable they’d think to come here. I suppose.” He got up. “Mostly children. Who were not alive when humans were enslaved. But who have relatives who remember. Yet they still…”

“They have difficult lives. And it seems you’ve created a welcoming Court.” He stood up after him.

“I thought I had done my job scaring people away.” Tamlin looked around at the idyllic landscape. “I’m tied to these lands. That’s what I mean when I say I don’t own them. They are me. But…” The wind picked up again. “If they truly reflected me…it would be winter here too.”

A silence followed. He looked to Lucien, who was staring at him, wide-eyed. All of a sudden the corners of his mouth started to lift, blooming to a wide smile that quickly ripened to laughter.

Tamlin looked down, turning red as Lucien’s laughter got louder and louder.

“It’s,” he stifled a smile, crossing his arms. “It’s not that funny.”

But Lucien only kept laughing, starting to walk out of the wood. He couldn’t help but chuckle.

Lucien stopped, wiping his eyes, bending down over a grove of lily-of-the-valley. “Ahhh…” He breathed the scent in deeply. “These only bloom in Spring,” he said, getting up. “Not in winter.”

Tamlin said nothing.

“You’re a male of few words,” Lucien went on.

“Sometimes. Usually because I get the response you just gave me.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous, and you won’t.”

Lucien walked on ahead, confident, beginning to know his way around. As if it were truly beginning to feel like home. Tamlin wondered how long it would take for him to change his mind. Like the children who desperately ran to his Court, until they learned the truth.

As the manor came into view, Lucien diverted from the path, heading into the gardens. He had not spent much time showing them off. He cared for them meticulously—or he tried to—but he never lingered here. But he continued to follow Lucien’s lead, letting him do as he wished.

“I should probably—“

“What are these?” Lucien pointed to clusters of white flowers bordering the path to the garden.

“Sweet alyssum.”

Lucien bent down once again, smelling them. “Like honey.”

“Yes. My mother planted everything here.”

“It’s beautiful.” He began walking through. “And these?”

“Uh…gillyflower, I think.” Scent like cloves. Lucien moved on. Asking after every flower, spending his time on each one.

“This?”

“Lady’s seal.”

They passed iris and gardenia, daffodil and sweet pea. Lucien stopped again at a shower of wisteria, before moving on to the rose garden.

“These are nice,” Lucien said. “What kind are these?”

“Eglantine.”

“Hmm…” He kept going.

“I really do have to get back. You’re welcome to stay.”

Lucien nodded at him idly. “Thank you…for the tour.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“Have you thought of a position for me yet?” He asked, not looking up.

“It…not yet. Soon. I’ll let you know. In the meantime I’ll familiarize you with more of the Court. We can go to the coast. There’s a pool the locals have taken to calling the Cauldron.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of that. Selkies live there, don’t they?”

“Yes. They go between here, and—“ he stopped, unable to say the word.

“Hybern?”

“Yes,” he sighed, tensing. “Anyway. Enjoy the gardens.”

Lucien nodded to him.

“And…I don’t hunt down the humans. I just want to protect them.”

“From what?”

“Me.”

Lucien looked on him sadly, but Tamlin did not stay to hear anything else. He was already being ridiculous. The more he talked, the more Lucien would be turned off. He had been lured here, like those desperate children, with the promise of relief, and succor, and an end to their problems. But there was no paradise here. No end to suffering. It was merely dressed in sweet scents, and bright colors, luring them like bees or moths, until they realized it was not a bellflower, or honeysuckle, but a nepenthes, trapping them inside, feeding on them. He would learn, as the others had, in time.

But that laughter. That full-throated, hearty laughter that rang throughout the wood. It wasn’t mean. Not mocking, like he had been used to. He didn’t think Lucien had a cruel bone in his body. He set everyone at ease here. Even himself, for a moment. And he hadn’t felt like that in a very long time.

That night, the laughter rang in his head like the singing of bluebells. He dreamt of them. Of the laughter. Of hands in the garden. Of his burying them. Of it spreading, from the heart outwards. One by one. The eglantine, the briar. Pink tulips, and gentian. One after the other, wilting and browning and falling to the dirt. His mother’s gardens, and the meadows, and the wood, to the very end, to the coast. A blight spreading through his whole Court. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. And then faster and faster, cresting like a wave, all the way to Hybern.

He woke up in a sweat. He felt a moment of panic, trapped, until he realized he had run his claws through another set of sheets. He retracted them, sighing, and threw the sheets off. Every time he had woken up since he had become High Lord, he felt it, momentarily, the panic of where he was. The darkness, and the trapped feeling, needing to get out. And then the pull of the earth, dragging him down. He would struggle against it fruitlessly for a moment, an overturned beetle. And then give in, becoming limp. Letting himself settle against it. The thorns wrapping round, and digging into his flesh, and melding with his bones. Piercing his skin, as claws.

He wanted Lucien to feel safe here, cared for, while he recovered. Welcomed. But he didn’t want him to feel settled here. To sink in, and be buried alive. Choked in blossoms and scent, while he festered inside. He wanted him to feel free, to do anything. Go anywhere.

He could tell Lucien noticed his reluctance to name a position for him, in the days that followed. Lucien would ask, casually. And he would say he was thinking about it. And continue to familiarize him with Spring. And Lucien’s wonder, and appreciation for everything that surrounded him did not lessen. No hesitation, or boredom, or annoyance made its way in. But it only made him worry rather than reassure him. It was not good to fit in here.

Finally, they made their way to the western coast. They walked its beaches, its cliffs, and he showed him the Cauldron, where a pod of selkies rested with their young. He had always felt a sort of kinship with them. Shapeshifters as he was, and usually wary of outsiders. And not liking to be tied down. Lucien hailed them, but they only looked curiously, and headed out to sea. He and Lucien followed after with their eyes as the selkies disappeared from sight, past the horizon to the specter of Hybern.

“You haven’t shown me the villages here,” Lucien said, after they had stood in silence for a time.

His voice took awhile to hit him, mingling as it did with the wind whipping his ears. He loved how it could shut his mind off, covering him in a kind of cocoon.

“Tamlin?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes.” He suddenly remembered Lucien’s reputation. “I’m sorry. I’m not that…social.”

“I’ve gathered.”

Once Lucien met people, he would be further enmeshed here. But perhaps it was good—he must already be getting bored, and restless. He would not be enough himself. Eventually, Lucien would tire of him, and this place.

“Tomorrow.”

“Alright.”

He thought Lucien would protest more, but he seemed to accept it, perhaps content with his reassurance, and the promise of what was to come.

He hardly slept that night, tossing and turning. He kept seeing mountains, craggy hills, and forests of juniper and pine. And suspicious, warning looks. The caverns around the Cauldron were filled with bats, who entangled themselves in his hair, and bit at his neck, and drove him over the edge. He floated on the waves, the current dragging him, until he was pulled to the shore, long nails and red hair overhanging like algae. And a voice to his ear telling him he was finally home. And there was a castle, and there were tethers tightening around his wrists, and his neck. He couldn’t breathe, and he pushed against them—

He woke up. Another torn set of sheets. He threw them off again, and leaned forward, his hair falling in front of him. And his head in his hands.

“We don’t really have big cities here. I don’t know how interesting it will be,” he said as they set out on horseback the next day.

Lucien looked at him wryly. “Will you let me decide that?”

“I—“

But Lucien had already set off, his hair flying behind him. Tamlin followed after, smiling slightly with the thrill, and the freedom. The breaking up of the earth underneath, and the drive forward.

Lucien turned to him when he had caught up. “We have villages in the Autumn Court, too. That’s where Jes—“ He stopped, and his horse slowed to a trot, his head hanging slightly.

It was the first time Lucien had even started to speak of her. It had been weeks.

“Anyway,” he went on quickly. “I’m sure the villages are lovely here.”

“They are, but I—“ He stopped.

Lucien stared at him, waiting.

“Nothing. Come on.”

He led the way. The landscape of the Spring Court was largely of farmland—greens and rhubarb, spinach and radish. Berries and apricots. Herbs. Massive flower farms. Many traded with the other seasonal Courts. Even Autumn. Others raised sheep and cattle. And there were rolling hills dotted with idyllic cottages of stone mined from the region; the older houses had taken on a gold patina over time. As with everywhere else, Lucien remarked on the beauty of the area, the golden hue of the cottages reflected in his skin, accentuating his eyes. Tamlin rode through the towns and villages with him, introducing him but hanging back while Lucien spoke to everyone they passed. Asking their names, what they did. Quickly falling into a rapport with them. One after another. His own mare shook her head in impatience, sensing his anxiety and eagerness to flee. He soothed her, forcing himself to relax as well as he watched Lucien—so at ease already. Occasionally Lucien would look back, as if to see if he was alright, and he would give a reassuring smile back. And then Lucien seemed content to talk with the villagers, for hours. When he finally trotted back to him, he was more animated than he’d seen him yet, his eyes sparkling. Tamlin couldn’t help but smile in response, charmed as the villagers had been.

“At this rate it will take years to get through every village,” he said.

“Like I said—I’m not going to get bored.”

“What did you talk about?”

Lucien grinned, a mischievous look in his eyes, and rode on.

He felt a wave of discomfort and self-consciousness, looking towards the village for a moment before following on. As if Lucien already knew the Spring Court better than he did.

It continued like that for days. He continued to stay at a distance, watching Lucien bring life and light to each village as he had to the manor. He wanted to thank him, and remembered that, in the human world, in the solar Courts, Autumn was soon to start. A time celebrated as one of thanks. There were harvest festivals in honor of this all over the Autumn Court, the air rich with spices and the bounty of the land. Different villages would cook their signature dishes. Lucien had yet to mention his home, or his family, since almost speaking the name of his beloved. But Tamlin thought he saw a dimming of the light in him, as if the angle of it had deepened with the sun’s waning, and the shadows lengthening. Every day a little bit darker. He could not judge Lucien’s reluctance—he himself could hardly bear to speak of his mother. But there had been no word from the forest house. And he knew Lucien would be homesick. He had to be. And he thought of the peace of him surrounded by crabapple blossoms, and thought to bring it to him—the gold, and the warmth, and the sun.

His heart raced the morning of the equinox. Light had been behind his eyes, he had dreamt of the sun. And when he awoke, he was glowing—a rare lapse in the leash he kept around his own power. He shook it off, and dressed, and waited.

Everyone in the manor was in awe at the display. In every room, throughout the halls, spilling out of doors—anemone and dahlias. Carnations and aster. Mums, coneflowers, and zinnia. Reds and purples and oranges and yellows. He usually wasn’t much for ostentatious display. But he had felt compelled. He waited anxiously in the dining hall for Lucien to arrive.

“Lucien!” He said rather loudly, standing up when he finally arrived. Lucien started in response, almost in a daze.

“What—“

“Sit, please.” He ordered breakfast to be brought.

Lucien stared at the bowl before him. “Apple…dumplings.”

“In blackberry sauce, just like—“

“Yes.”

“I know it won’t be as good as what you’re used to, but—“

“Tamlin…” Lucien looked up from his food at the display of sunflowers in the center of the table, and there was a look of unfathomable sadness on his face.

“Uh—“ He indicated the serving girl to leave them. She looked at Lucien, then at him, an awkward expression on her face, then left the room, closing the door behind her.

“Are you alright?” He asked, tentatively.

A tear slid down Lucien’s cheek. It was the first time Tamlin had seen him cry since he had first arrived. Every other time the shadow had passed, or he had banished it, shaking it off with a laugh, plunging into each new experience. But this was the great equal. Light, and shadow. Soon, the darkness would overwhelm.

“It’s just—those were Jes’ favorite flowers.”

“I—“ He slumped in his chair. He was an idiot. “I’m sorry. I’ve upset you.”

Lucien breathed in deeply. “No, it—“ He laughed, blinking as the tears continued to fall. “This smells good.”

Tamlin watched him, waiting. Lucien trembled a moment. Then wiped his eyes, and picked up a fork and knife, cutting into the dumplings. “They’re good,” he said.

“I’m sure they’re not like home,” he said softly.

“No, try them. I don’t want you to just sit there watching me eat.”

“I’m sorry.”

Lucien looked at him until he picked up his fork. It was delicious—he would have to compliment the cook—though his palate was trained for what bloomed in Spring.

They ate in silence, and though he knew Lucien found it annoying, he could not help but look at him at intervals—over and over—hoping for a different look, for the joy to return to his face. But at least he didn’t vomit, or gag in disgust. He finished everything. Tamlin remembered when he would hardly eat at all. When he couldn’t do anything.

He looked down at his own plate. He had managed to finish too. He dreaded the conversation they would have now. How thoughtless he had been.

But Lucien stood up instead. That was right. He would leave now.

“Tamlin?”

“Yes?”

“Walk with me.”

“Alright.” He sighed, and stood up, his face growing hot as they walked out into the flower-filled halls.

“It’s beautiful. Really.”

“You don’t have to say that. I can see it upsets you.”

“Why did you do this? All of this?”

“I—I thought you might want a reminder of home, on—“

“The equinox? Do you celebrate it here?”

“Nominally. It’s not really…”

“A Spring Court thing? Yeah.”

“On the border, mostly—“ He stopped. Another painful reminder. But Lucien didn’t react.

“You really went all out.”

“You seem to like flowers.”

“It’s not—“ He stopped, walking outside to where there were boxes of marigolds, black-eyed susans, and zinnias. He plucked one of the zinnias, attaching it to a buttonhole, and smiled at some potted allium. Then looked at him.

“They are beautiful, Tam. Really.”

He smiled.

“Can I call you Tam?”

“No one has in quite a while. But yes. You can call me that.”

“These. All of this.” He gestured around. “It’s beautiful. I do appreciate the gesture. And…I haven’t wanted to face—I’m still not ready.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to keep—“ He looked again at the purple globes of the allium. “You know these can only be planted in Autumn?”

“…Yes.”

“They’re, beautiful, Tam. But they’re not me. I don’t know that they’ve ever been—“ He looked at the sentries nearby, and walked on. Tamlin followed behind, giving him space.

After a time, walking towards the rolling hills, he went on.

“I love my home. I miss it. Every day—I don’t miss them.”

His father and brothers. He nodded in understanding.

“But it’s not…the land. Not really. I do love to be in nature. I think I feel…most at home in it. But it was the people. The villages, in my—Autumn. It was who I met there. It was the fields of sunflowers towards Summer—but not the flowers—it was seeing them with her. It’s not the flowers of Spring, or their scent. It’s who I’m viewing them with. Who made—makes them grow. Who nurtures, and protects them. Who gets joy from seeing them. You know, I did talk to the villagers about you.”

“And what did they say?” He tried not to sound too anxious, but he saw Lucien smile slightly in response, sensing it.

“Well, they said you’re not exactly…” He cleared his throat. “Approachable.”

Tamlin looked away, crossing his arms.

“Yes,” Lucien chuckled. “Like that. But…they know you care deeply for them. That you would do anything for them. That you’ve provided for them. Protected them. Despite how you…your early days…you chose them. And they know that. I chose this, Tam. I came here, of my own free will. Like I said before. I could have gone to Winter, or Summer.”

“Wasn’t this closest?”

He rolled his eyes. “Come on, you’re missing my point. Whatever people said about you—he’s a beast, he’s a monster. Instinctively, I knew I would be safe here. I still feel that way.”

“I—I’m glad.”

“Are you sure? You don’t want me to leave?”

“No, I—“ He felt a tug on his heart. “Don’t leave. I’m sorry if I haven’t made you feel welcome.”

“No, you have. But you need to stop apologizing for existing. For this Court. I want to be here.”

“I’m so—“ He stopped himself.

Lucien only smiled, and kept walking.

“Autumn will always be a part of me. My mother…Jes…but I’m here now. However it happened. I have to embrace it, Tam. Everything. I have to. Do you understand?”

He looked at him. Lucien had let his emotions come to the surface for a moment. A moment of trust, and vulnerability, that he could not betray.

“Yes.”

“I get the feeling, you feel like an outsider in your own Court. Like you don’t belong. Is that fair?”

“Yes.”

“Then that makes us two exiles in the Spring Court.”

He bent down to admire a patch of snowdrops. “You are not your father and brothers. I am not mine.”

Tamlin kneeled down next to him, suddenly feeling the pull of the earth.

“You have in your Court a flower that blooms in the Spring and Autumn.” Lucien glanced at him. “Roses.”

“Yes. Among others.”

“So. Let us decide. To transplant ourselves. Put down roots.” He sat down next to him. “You may not feel like it, but the land is reflective of you. It’s a place I want to put roots down in. We can make this Court into anything we want. You’ve already transformed it from what it was under your father.”

“I’ve tried. Not enough.”

“Then let us resolve today to try harder.” He held out his hand. After a moment, Tamlin took it.

“Good.” They shook, and Lucien released him, settling back on the earth.

“I’ve…been thinking…” Tamlin breathed in, and out. He had made a deal, after all. “About a position for you.”

“Court jester?”

“No,” he laughed. “Though I wouldn’t doubt you’d excel at it.”

Lucien smiled. “So, what is it, then?”

“Well…you certainly have a way with words. The way you are with people…me…I sometimes…find it difficult…talking to people.”

“You don’t say.”

He rolled his eyes. “Lucien.”

“Sorry, sorry. Go ahead.”

“And with your reputation…getting along with the other Courts…I thought…would you like to be my emissary—the Spring Court emissary, I mean?”

“Yes.”

“…You don’t want to think about it? It would mean…at some point…going to Autumn.”

“I’m not afraid of them.”

“Good. Because I can’t think of anyone else I’d like to be the face of the Spring Court. Certainly no one who could make it look as good.”

Lucien smiled to himself, looking at the ground, then looked up at him. “You’re not always so bad with words.”

“Once in a great while.”

They fell into silence again. He looked at the snowdrops, Lucien joining him. A moment’s pause, before the work began. The first flower of Spring, on the first day of Autumn. It fit, somehow. And he felt as if he could—reach down, from the tips of the blossoms, deep into the earth, instead of the pull from below. That he could direct it. Like a gardener, he supposed.

And not alone.

@tamlinweek 2024 Day Three: Flower Language

#tamlin week 2024 #tamlin week #tamlin #acotar #lucien vanserra

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songofthesibyl · 15 days

Text

The Lark Ascending

A Tamlin POV set during the time in his youth when he was friends with Rhysand.

Like a kite Cut from the string, Lightly the soul of my youth Has taken flight

—Ishikawa Takuboku

“About time,” Rhys said, tapping his foot.

Tamlin smiled, setting down his pack. “Were you waiting with bated breath?”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “You know how difficult it is for me to get away.”

“Yes. I do.” It was difficult for him to get away, too. He hadn’t expected anything beyond the first meeting—a meeting out of pity, no doubt. Rhys had admitted as much. But in that charming way of his that made it seem like a compliment. And yet when they had a chance to see each other again. And again. For months, now. It still didn’t feel real.

He realized he had never really had a friend before.

“So you really make a big thing of Nynsar?” Rhys asked.

“Not as much as with Calan Mai. But it is the arrival of spring. Whether delayed or not.”

“The spreading of seeds, and all that.” Rhys sat down against a pine tree.

“Something like that.” He joined him on the grass nearby, the corners of his mouth starting to lift in anticipation.

“Not that you haven’t been doing plenty of that lately.”

There it was. He turned away, chuckling, a slight heat to his face. When he turned back, Rhys was gazing on him idly.

“It’s so easy to make you blush. Strange considering how much time you’ve spent in the pleasure houses lately.”

Tamlin adjusted his position on the grass.

Rhys laughed. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m certainly not.”

“I’m not sure you know what shame is.”

“No. Perhaps not. But I’m serious. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed. It’s all natural.”

“It’s certainly helped me in the poetry contests.” He cringed—he had said too much.

Rhys sat up straight. “What?”

“It’s—never mind.”

But Rhys leaned forward, that mischievous, almost predatory look of delight on his face. “Poetry contests? Since when do you have time for poetry contests?”

“In between fiddle concerts.”

Rhys tipped back his head, laughing, then looked on him, a spark in his eyes. “No, really. What contests?”

“At the camps. Sometimes at night, we—“

“Jerk each other off? Yeah, everyone knows about that.”

He gave him a look.

“Im sorry,” he said, stifling laughter. “Go ahead.”

“Sometimes we do—get bored. So we write…limericks. The worst, and dirtiest one wins.”

Rhys searched his eyes. “And you actually participate in this?”

“And win. Thanks in part to my education in the pleasure houses.”

He crossed his arms. “And what do you get when you win?”

Tamlin shrugged. “Bragging rights.” He added before Rhys could step in, “Not a handjob.”

Rhys bit his lip before responding. “You’re learning. But just bragging rights?”

“It’s just a silly game.” That he took incredibly seriously.

“You like poetry, then? Along with music?” He began to rifle through his own pack.

“I…dabble.”

Rhys smiled at his choice of words, but kept his eyes on whatever was in his pack.

“My mother is the real poet. She writes verses…for songs. On her harp. Sometimes I accompany her on the fiddle.”

Rhys finally looked up at him, lifting an eyebrow. “You don’t sing, do you?”

“As far as you’re concerned, no. What are you doing in there?”

Rhys seemed almost hesitant. Shy, for a moment. But reached in, and took out a parcel wrapped in the brocades of the Night Court. Dark purple and black with designs in gold and silver of moons, stars, and comets. He held it for a moment before handing it over. All playfulness was gone. He was in one of his rare moments of naked sincerity.

Tamlin took it, examining the fabric. “Beautiful.” As was everything associated with the Night Court. He felt such peace just looking at it. As if he were gazing into the starlight pool.

“Open it.”

He lifted his brows, but didn’t question him. Instead unwrapping the cloth. Inside was a bandolier with a set of the Illyrian fighting knives Rhys had been training him with.

“Rhys, what—“

“So you can practice on your own. Unless you plan on defeating your enemies with bad poetry.”

He laughed slightly, but his smile faded, and he looked into Rhys’ star-flecked eyes.

“Rhys…I can’t accept this.”

He looked away demurely. “Consider it a late Solstice present.”

“But I have nothing for you.”

The playfulness returned to his face. “How about one of your poems?”

He chuckled. “For this? It’s hardly a fair trade.”

“Like I said. It’s a gift. But if you want to give me something in return…”

Tamlin smiled, carefully setting the knives and cloth down, and went into his own pack, grabbing a pencil and paper.

“You’re going to write it right now?”

“I told you, I’m…well versed in limericks by now.”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “I weep for the future of your Court.”

“You and me both.”

Rhys stared at him as he wrote, and crossed out, and wrote again, smiling.

“What?”

“You’re already so different from the person I met at Solstice. And thank the Cauldron for it.”

He looked up at him with a wry smile. “I thought you told me to accept myself as I am?”

“When did I say that? But see, that’s already different. You wouldn’t have said that to me before. Too busy stammering.”

He said nothing, but continued writing.

“…But I’m glad I could help dislodge the stick up your ass every Spring Court citizen gets issued at birth. Part of the way anyway.”

He grinned. “Stop, I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Exactly how long do these contests last?”

“Not that long.” He tore a scrap of the paper, and handed it to him. “Here. I don’t know that it’s my best, but—“

Rhys grinned, and began reading.

“There once was a male born of the Night. Who made all the females squeal with fright. But rumors of his size That would put out their eyes Were nothing compared to the male’s bite.”

His smile deepened, and he lifted his eyes to him. “This is rather complimentary.”

“It’s a gift. And I did say they were just rumors.”

“I would say substantiated, if you’ve been talking to all those females you’ve visited.” He held out his hand, beckoning. “Give me the pencil.”

Tamlin looked at him incredulously. “What, you can’t handle not being the best at something?”

“I couldn’t tell you, I’ve never had that experience before. Again, just ask the females.”

He rolled his eyes, and handed him the pencil, crossing his arms and arching his brow. Rhys had a wicked smile, quietly laughing to himself as he composed. Tamlin was silent and patient, curious to see this side of him. That he would feel competitive with him, of all people. It did not take much time for him to put down his pencil, though, and hand the paper over.

Tamlin lifted his brows again in surprise and curiosity, and read it out loud, immediately beginning to stifle laughter.

“There once was a male from the Spring Court Who thought loose ladies weren’t his sort But whose member sprung out At each female about Until Spring had come in every port.”

He burst out laughing. “Rhys, I didn’t know you were such a poet.”

“One of my many gifts. So have I won this round?”

Tamlin smiled at him. “Beginner’s luck.”

Rhys lay back against the tree trunk again with his arms crossed behind his head, smug and satisfied. “Think of another one over Nynsar. And don’t hold back.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. What will you do over Nynsar?”

Rhys looked at him briefly, a thoughtful, almost tender look. Then closed his eyes. “The Night Court has its own ways to observe the coming of spring.”

Tamlin laughed again, and Rhys opened his eyes, sitting upright with a start. “I swear, I didn’t mean that one.”

They both dissolved into giggles, collapsing onto the earth until it subsided. Then remaining there, lying in silence. Tamlin breathed in the earth, closing his eyes, listening to the swaying of the grass in the wind. No training, or life lessons, today. They simply lay there, enjoying each other’s company, without masks or obligations. No observing and being observed. Nothing at all but themselves. He had never felt so at ease with someone before. Even the land—wild, and rough, the hilly terrain dotted with pine, juniper, and seas of purple heather. It fit his proportions better, he settled more easily into its grooves. The tidy, small nature of the Spring Court—meadows and blossoms and manicured gardens—was stifling compared to this.

Maybe not the gardens, though. Not hers.

He turned over, looking at Rhys, who was lying on his back, basking in the sun.

“I’d like to see, though,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “how you celebrate the…equinox. Starfall, right?”

Rhys remained on his back, saying nothing, and Tamlin wondered if he was asleep. But then Rhys turned towards him, opening his eyes, and propping his head on his arm. He had that same distant, dreamy look in his eyes from earlier.

“I’d like that too. Some day.”

A shadow passed over them. Tamlin sighed. “Your friends don’t like me.”

“They’re my family. And they don’t know you as anything other than the heir to an enemy Court. They’re just being protective.”

“Yeah. I guess I wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

Rhys stared at him. “Yes, you do.”

He wanted to say something, but Rhys turned again, looking up at the big sky overhead.

“Don’t worry, the holiday will be over soon enough. You’ll be back to writing doggerel in no time.”

“One can hope.”

Rhys chuckled. “Well, I suppose we should get going.” He sat up.

Tamlin reluctantly did the same, eyeing his pack. “Rhys, really…I don’t know how to thank you for—“

“There’s no need. Write me more poetry, if you like. Maybe an ode.”

Tamlin smiled, and they stood up.

“And…probably don’t show those to the High Lord.”

“No.”

“Ok, enjoy the holiday.”

“You too.”

Rhys waited for him in his reluctance to go. But he would have to winnow first. He could not be found in the Night Court alone. Rhys gave him a sympathetic smile, and he pictured it as he was pulled hundreds of miles back to his own Court. There was a melancholy feeling that passed over him briefly, and a heaviness—but it was shorter, and lighter, with every visit. The manor was no longer his home. He never intended it to be again. Heir or not. It would never happen. He would determine his own future. And so he stepped lightly over the meadows and glens. The earth didn’t hold him so strongly. Soon, he felt, he would not step on the ground at all.

A plant cut from its roots. A fluff of dandelion floating in the air. The lark ascending.

He held his pack close to him as he approached the manor.

“Young lord,” the sentry at the door said, “Welcome home. Happy Nynsar.”

“Thank you, same to you.” He tried not to make the reason for his next question obvious. But it probably was. “Are my father and brothers home?”

“…No, my lord. But your mother is in.”

He couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on his face. He couldn’t have received better news upon his arrival.

“Thank you.” He nearly skipped as he made his way through the halls, finding out from the servants his mother was in the library. It would have been his first guess, though. He wondered briefly where his father and brothers were.

Probably out hunting babies who couldn’t pay the Tithe.

He stood in the doorway of the library, staring at her. She had her back to him, sitting at one of the tables. Writing. Her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, studded with wildflowers. A barrette of purple hyacinths pulled some of it back, and she wore a white gown with embroidered ivy trailing throughout. He felt tears come to his eyes, looking at her. He didn’t know why.

But of course, he did.

“Mother.”

She rose from her seat, turning towards him with bright green eyes. “Tamlin!”

And nearly ran to him. He dropped his pack carefully on the floor, and embraced her, holding her close and exchanging kisses on each cheek.

She pulled back, holding onto his arms, and looking him up and down. “Look at you!” She squeezed his arms. “Your muscles get bigger every time I see you. And you’ve got some color on your face.” She smiled. “You look good.”

“And you look beautiful,” he replied.

She shrugged, still smiling. “For Nynsar.”

She preferred it to Calan Mai. He did too. He didn’t like how she was then. How his father was with her.

“What were you writing?”

“Oh, just some poetry.”

He couldn’t help but smile, stifling a laugh.

“What? Is there something funny about that?”

“No, mother,” he said. “You know I love your poetry. It’s just I was writing some poetry too earlier.”

“For the holiday?”

He ruffled his hair. “Uh, sort of.”

“What, what is it? Can I see?”

“Uh, no…I don’t think you want to read it.”

“Why not, I’m sure it’s lovely.”

“It’s…” He felt his face get hot. “They’re limericks. And not any good.”

She crossed her arms, giving him an amused smile. “Oh, really?”

“Mom…”

“Come,” she laughed, taking his arm. “Sit with me.” She led him to a couch, sitting beside him.

“They…they won’t be back for awhile?”

Her smile faded somewhat. “No. Not until tonight. They’re out hunting.”

He turned aside, smirking, then turned back.

His mother stared at him.

“What?”

“You really do look good, Tam. Happy.”

“I…don’t mind the camps.”

“I—I’m glad.” She looked down for a moment.

“I miss you, though.”

She looked up again, a sweet smile on her face. “Oh, I miss you too. But I—is that all there is?”

“What do you mean?”

“These past few months…you’ve seemed…different. Almost…giddy. Are you sure it’s just the camps?”

He smiled. Ever observant. He could have brushed off her intuition. But he wanted to tell someone. He wanted to tell her. He once thought she’d be the only friend he’d ever have.

“It’s…”

She brushed his hair from his face. “What? What is it?”

“You know…” He looked towards the closed door.

“We’re alone,” she said.

He turned back to her. Still speaking in a lower voice. “Rhys—Rhysand. The heir to the Night Court.”

Her smile was gone. “I know of him.”

“He’s…he reached out to me. On the Winter Solstice.”

She sat back. “Reached out.”

“He’s been helping me train. Illyrian techniques. His mother’s people.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know how they belittle him for it. His father’s mate…how they look down on him for it. Simply for being born.”

She gave him a look of understanding. “Yes. I know.”

“I know how it sounds. What you’ll say. What anyone would…it’s not a trick. I thought it was, too. It took time for me to trust him. It was the same for him. But we do…trust each other. I just came from there.”

“His Court? Tamlin…”

“It’s alright. His family knows.”

“They—they do.”

“Well, some of them.”

“How long have they…”

The whole time, he thought. But didn’t say, pressing his lips together instead.

“And you felt…you couldn’t tell me…”

“It’s not you…” He looked at her drawn expression, missing the brightness, and the smile. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” she breathed in, shaking her head. “I understand. I’m glad you’ve found someone to talk to. He’s a true friend?”

He smiled tentatively, getting up and bringing his pack over to her, then sitting back down and taking the parcel out, and handing it to her.

“He gave me this today. Open it.”

She glanced at him briefly as he handed it to her. She held it for a moment then unwrapped it, silently, looking at the bandolier with a somewhat sorrowful expression. His heart dropped.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, the sadness seeping into her voice.

“But…”

“I just worry for you. It’s what a mother does.”

“We’ve been careful. He doesn’t have an agenda, mother, I swear—“

“No, honey, I believe you. It’s not that.”

“And I’ll keep them hidden. I’m…used to hiding things from them.”

“Yes, I know. It’s not that…” She handed him the parcel and stood up, walking to the table she’d been working at, picking up a piece of paper, and sitting back down at his side. “It still needs some work.”

He put the parcel on the floor and took the paper from her, reading the poem on it silently.

“I see him, soft and sweetness of lilac Of the tender shoots that yellow and green Of the willow’s sway and of calling back Her song and his song of the world unseen. The markers that run deep, the songs unheard A plucking of taut strings by the reeds The blossoms sway at his every word He already has everything he needs. The rains of Spring can run cold, arresting life The violence of its winds and of its whims But the softness that yields outlasts the knife That soon breaks as it’s thrusted through limbs. The rose that blooms red does not by the thorn But to seek the bee for which it is born.”

He looked up at her, and she turned away shyly.

“Like I said, it needs work.”

“No,” he said, embracing her. “It’s perfect.”

“You’re sweet,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“I…” He looked over at the knives on the top of his pack. The brocade spread out underneath, a blanket of stars. “All sons have to learn how to fight.”

She smiled sadly, and caressed his cheek with her hand. “You’re not all sons. You’re my son.”

He only smiled at her. “Anyway—you know they wouldn’t leave me alone if I didn’t agree to go there. If they thought I’d actually have ambitions to become High Lord.”

“But you already have the markers. Why wouldn’t you become High Lord one day?”

“Because…” They were both silent. If he became High Lord, her mate would be dead. If he never intended to become one—

“I don’t want you throwing your life away at those camps. You’re meant for so much more than that.”

“Being High Lord?”

“No. I don’t mean that.”

They sat in silence again.

“Here,” He suddenly thought, taking out his pencil and paper from his pack. “I’ll write you a poem. A limerick. Not—“ He clarified. “Not the ones I was writing earlier.”

She laughed softly.

For a moment, looking at her, he thought of the one he had come up with long before, reciting it in his mind.

There once was a mother whose silence Betrayed a mate who was filled with great violence Though her kindness was strength The pain broke her at length And led to a life of compliance.

No. She didn’t deserve that. Instead, he quickly wrote something down, and handed it to her.

“As the Spring fields are planted with seed And the blossoms unfurl with great speed A son carries with him Thoughts of love that won’t dim Of the mother whom he’ll always need.”

“It’s nothing, but—“

Her lower lip trembled, and she kissed his forehead. “My sweet boy.”

“I’m still here, mom,” he said as she parted from him. “I’m still me. Maybe more than…I’ve felt in a long while. You know I can’t just stay here and play music, and write poetry.”

“I know,” she breathed.

“But with Rhys…he’s shown me…he displayed it before I was even born. That you can use your strength to help others. That you can protect them. I…wish things had been different. That another life were possible. But this…I feel like…there’s another world opening up to me. That one day…even the life I have now is…a stepping stone to something better. For you, too.”

“For me?”

“You should come with me, mother. His Court…what I’ve seen of it…it’s beautiful. I’m sure you’d love it there.”

“Tamlin…I could never. I have my duties here…”

“You had as much choice being Lady of Spring as I had being heir. You were meant for more too.”

She looked at him, eyes shining. “Perhaps. One day.”

“He talked of seeing Starfall. Next year, maybe.”

“Yes, I’ve heard it’s beautiful. But…” She took his hands in hers. “Whatever happens. If he has done this for you. Made you feel like yourself again. I am happy for you. But…using your strength to help others…you didn’t need him to figure that out. That’s always who you’ve been. I’ve never been worried you’d lose sight of that.”

That he’d turn out like his father and brothers, she meant.

“And it is worth it. Being Lady of Spring. If it means I get to be your mother.”

He looked down, a pang in his heart. “Mom…”

She lifted his chin with her hand to look him in the eyes. “Well. We have a little while until they get back. We’ve written poetry. Will you play music with me?”

“I’d love to.”

“Good.” She let go, and he wrapped the knives in the brocade and put them back in his pack, carrying it to his room, and getting out his fiddle from its hiding spot, joining his mother who already had her harp out. He saw anew, though she smiled, the great sadness, and loneliness in her. There was no one she could be herself with. Feel safe with. Who would take care of her when he was away. A gnawing guilt ate at him, and a worry that lingered as they began to play. Their secret song.

But the longer they played, his worries began to subside, as they always did. His heart lifted as she sang. And he thought to himself, that she would be lifted with him. Her steps lighter and lighter, as his. She would sever her roots, as he was. That bound them to this place. That hid her light. When he left this place for good, she would leave with him.

They would escape.

@tamlinweek 2024 Day 2: Poet/Warrior

#tamlin week 2024 #tamlin week #tamlin #acotar

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songofthesibyl · 16 days

Text

Spring’s Awakening

A Tamlin POV of his early days as High Lord of the Spring Court.

Tamlin woke from his dream to find he had transformed into a monstrous beast. It had been a nice dream—only vague recollections of it now, as he blinked it away in the dawn, sparks in his eyes like stars. But there had been peace, and laughter, and music. And a tearing up of roots. Lifted aloft, to the stars, on wings. Far away.

Escape.

But that was over now. He had felt the roots, the vines, the brambles—every crawling, clinging, claiming thing reach up out of the earth, and wrap round his feet, climbing. Thorns piercing his flesh as they wrapped round and tightened. Until it had attached, and dragged him down. The earth feeding on him, and him unable to sever his ties to it without cutting himself off, a pool of blood soaking the earth, profusions of red roses. He would never be rid of it. He was tied to this place forever.

He felt the earth against him now, as he came to. Bleary-eyed, ash in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth. Smooth, and straight. The sharp points retreated back into himself, for now. He lifted his arms, groaning with the effort. Five fingers on each hand. Slightly roughened with use. But no claws, no fur. Only dirt—he moved his hands closer to his eyes—under his fingernails too. From digging.

He winced, and dropped them back onto the earth. Everything hurt. It took too much effort to do anything. He would lie here a little longer. Just a little longer. Until he sank further, until the roots came to claim him, until he was buried, and the grass grew over. A little longer.

Where his mother was. Where her head would rejoin her neck, her bleeding heart connected to the earth’s veins. He remembered dirt on her hands, and under her nails, too. From cultivating life, from nourishing life. He looked at his hands again. It was not just dirt. Dried blood. He did not know from where. There were so many it could have been. He dropped his arms again, threatening to dissolve into sobs. He was so weak. He had been so weak. But then that power, that had exploded out of him. He could have killed anyone. He had—killed everyone, and everything. He dropped salt tears. Nothing would grow here now. And he could never leave. He had burned the wings.

He shivered at the rumbling of the earth, and remembered his nakedness, closing himself into himself, willing the earth to take him. But it would not. It would leave him here, exposed.

There was no hiding what he was now.

He heard vague voices, and pricked up his ears. Had Rhys come back, to finish what they had started? To ask about the wings? No. He couldn’t smell him. But they were coming for him. To make him pay, to sit on a throne. To murder him, perhaps. What did it matter. He contemplated turning back into his beast form. But he couldn’t be bothered.

As they approached, he recognized the smell, and furrowed his brow slightly in confusion. But didn’t move, or bother trying to hide himself.

“Tamlin,” she said above him, part pity, part sorrow. And he felt something being dropped on him. There was a brief thought the female who addressed him was his mother, until he remembered. He flexed his hands, remembering the blood on them. How he must look. Then gathered the cloth around him. Priestess robes.

“Tamlin,” she repeated. “We’ve been looking for you for days.”

He said nothing.

“My father…he’s been searching day and night. He came across you a few times before, but…”

His beast form. It had kept them away. As it had driven away everyone else. But they were still here. She was still here.

“Ianthe…why are you still here?”

His voice was rough. He had been roaring, yes. Over and over.

“I wouldn’t leave you.”

Maybe if he changed now. He could scare them away again. But he had no energy. And he had to admit—the warmth of the robe felt good. He certainly wouldn’t take it off in front of her now.

Instead he sat up, clutching it around him. It was too small, of course. He didn’t try to wear it normally, but wrapped it around his waist. Ianthe looked away, coughing. She was only in her plain underdress now.

“My father is waiting with a horse for you. Unless you want to winnow—“

“No.” He wanted to take as much time as he could before he returned to the manor. He trembled—no, he couldn’t go back there. But he couldn’t leave either. He could never leave.

“Tamlin. You have to go back. Your people are waiting…”

“My…” he finally turned to look at her. “What people?”

“Me, for one. My father. Your court is more than just the nobility. They need you.”

“Need me for what?”

She sat back on the dirt. “What happened with Rhysand isn’t your fault.”

“Ianthe—“

“Yes?”

“Don’t mention his name. Or what happened. It’s done.”

“If it’s done, then move on. Look at you. You’re already glamouring yourself. You’ve been High Lord for little more than a few weeks.”

Had it been that long already?

“How long have I…?”

“Six days. You don’t remember?”

“I—“ He shook his head. He remembered, after they had burned. After he had buried his mother. There had been a fracturing. So many forms he had thought of. And yet the crack was in everything, it got through, and split him, forever. He was bear, and wolf, and stag, fleeing each other, growing away from each other. All of them, and none. He was a monster.

“Have you eaten?”

He ran his tongue over his teeth again, and tasted blood.

“I—I don’t know.”

She breathed in. “The manor has been cleaned. It’s ready for your arrival. For your coronation.”

“Clean…what coronation? This is a time of mourning.”

She bowed her head. “Of course. That does not change the fact that you are High Lord now. This is your Court. That must be acknowledged.”

She put her hand on his bare arm, but he wrested it free. “It was a mistake.”

“The Mother makes no mistakes.”

“Maybe she didn’t choose this for me. Maybe the Mother is dead.”

She looked on him sadly, but he didn’t let her say anything else, instead standing up. He was still so sore. In the distance, he spotted the moonlight pool. He didn’t remember coming here. He wasn’t too far away.

He turned to Ianthe, and saw the pity well up in her deep blue eyes. She wouldn’t leave him alone.

The rumbling of the earth. He looked towards Ianthe, who had risen, turning towards it as well. Her father, on horseback, leading a white mare. He looked to them, and threw him a uniform. Tamlin caught it with one hand, holding up the robe with the other. It was starting to slip.

“Put that on, and give her her robe back. You don’t want to ride home like that.”

Home.

He looked at the clothes. What he had worn in the war camps. Where he should still be. But even that life, that was a concession, was gone now.

It was as he told Ianthe—it was done. If this was his punishment—so be it.

He nodded to them, and they turned away while he changed. It felt strange to wear the clothes. He felt anything would be artificial, a farce. He should still be lying in the dirt. He should be the only one to. He was going to die in one of his father’s wars. That was the plan. Until—briefly, he had thought he might live.

“Ianthe—“ She turned, and he walked to her, handing the robes back. “They’re a little dirty.”

“It’s alright.” She put them back on.

“Are you coming, then?” Her father said.

He looked at the horse waiting for him. His mother’s. “Yes.”

They rode back in silence, Ianthe with her father, and himself alone, dragging behind. He looked at the scenery disinterestedly as they passed. Willows, and blossoming trees, and wildflowers, and meadows. All forever opening, forever blooming. It didn’t make sense. There should have been a change. The blossoms fall, the wildflowers droop, hanging their heads. The willows should weep. It shouldn’t still be like this, now. They should be mourning, all of them. No—she would not have wanted that. She would want her gardens to thrive, for the beauty of her Court to endure. It was just that she was immortal. She should still have been here, too.

He stopped, instinctively, as the manor came into view. “No,” he mouthed, without sound.

No.

But he saw Ianthe and her father stop, their heads starting to turn towards him, and he moved forward again. Compelled. Dragged.

He could still smell the blood everywhere. Inside, and outside. Two of his camp—Bron and Hart—stood guard outside. He dismounted, and began to take the horse to the stables, when her father stopped him, saying he’d take care of it.

“Will you help me, Tamlin?” Ianthe said, holding out her arms to him.

He walked over to them, helping Ianthe down.

“I’ve sent regiments to the borders,” her father went on.

“Don’t stop anyone from leaving, if they wish.”

“We haven’t been. But we need to make sure the borders are secure, the way things are.”

He should probably have assisted him. But he merely thanked him, and waved him off, watching him as he left with the horses. He didn’t understand any of this.

“You should get cleaned up, and changed,” Ianthe said, “into clothes more befitting—“

He didn’t want her to say it. “What I’m wearing is fine.”

As they approached the doors, Bron and Hart began to bow, but he stopped them. They stood back up, awkwardly, and Bron opened the door for him.

He stepped over the threshold, and it hit him. The screams, the blood. Rhys’ eyes. The shadows filling the halls, then disappearing. Leaving this behind.

This place was a tomb.

“We’re working on getting the manor re-staffed,” Ianthe said.

He walked without thought, towards the library, letting her walk beside him. Needing her. Needing someone to tell him what to do. No one ever had before. This was never supposed to happen.

“Everyone’s left, then?”

She hesitated a moment before speaking. “Once the nobility fled. And you—“

“Became a beast?”

“…Found your beast form. All High Lords have them. And after what you went through…no one could blame you for—“

Yes, they could. “But they left.”

“They were afraid. You were gone. They thought Rhysand and his army of brutes would come to finish the job. Or simply kill everyone they could lay their hands on.”

Brutes. That’s what his father had called them. “But he hasn’t come back? Him, or his army?”

“No. Not yet. But we can’t assume he won’t. We have to be prepared.”

He had felt Rhys’ power when they had stood facing each other—already so long ago. He could have killed him easily. But Rhys was smart. He knew leaving him to this was the far greater punishment. He would not come back. Maybe ever.

They reached the library. He trembled, remembering. Exchanging poems. Playing music. He had been so much more. She had hoped for so much more for him. And she had told him, when he had told her about Rhys—to be careful.

He would never write poems again. Music would never be heard here.

He walked in, looking at the paintings. Examining the shelves.

“I don’t need servants. We don’t need to prepare for any invasion. They’re not coming."

“If not him, someone else. Someone who will take advantage of this.”

He took out a book of poetry, flipping through the pages without reading.

“Take advantage of what? An empty, ruined Court? A beast who plays at being High Lord?”

“Your Court is not empty. And it is no illusion. Only the glamour you have on yourself that drains your power every moment you use it.”

As she said it, he could feel it struggling to get out. Fighting with the beast. It was profane, that light. He felt naked, obscene, as if he had not put on his uniform.

“Let me see,” she insisted.

“Why? What is so important about showing you my un-glamoured form? What you saw lying in the dirt was a true as that.”

“It was not. That is what you’ve always thought yourself to be. What your father and brothers saw. It is not who you are. When your father sent you away, it was because you already outshone him. He proved his own unworthiness from such a thoughtless and reckless action, one he took without stopping to think what the consequences would be for his own Court. How many lives it would destroy. To kill someone’s mate—never mind a High Lord’s…he and your brothers got what was coming to them.”

He could not argue with her there. His father and brothers had forfeited their lives murdering Rhys’ mother and sister. But so had he.

“Your mother…what happened to her was horrific, and unforgivable. And I am truly sorry for it. I wish she could be here for you, to see this. To see you step into your full power. To lead as you were always meant to. To remake your Court.”

“Ianthe…” He did not know what she saw, that made her say this. It was not him.

“The Mother—the magic—chose you over your brothers for a reason. Most High Lords become so by violent means. Many killing their predecessors. Yet you did not, and never would have. You would rather have died than cause your mother that kind of pain. To lose her mate.”

Yet he had anyway. She seemed to sense his thoughts, and stopped.

“It was tragic, the method of your ascension. I will not deny that. But it was not a mistake. And it will help no one to hide it. To lie in the dirt, and wait for your enemies to come.”

“I…” He still could not believe. But he began to think of what his own mother would have wanted.

“Please, Tamlin. Let me see. For just a moment. The Mother’s will. Your light, that will shine throughout this realm. See how it feels to accept it. To stop holding back.”

He sighed and closed the book, putting on a nearby table. “If it will get you to stop all this talk.”

She smiled slightly.

“And just for a moment.”

“Of course.”

He breathed in, and out, and loosed the grip on his power. He saw the light reflected in her eyes, that widened before she fell to the ground.

“Magnificent.”

He turned towards the door. It was not Ianthe who had spoken.

“Amarantha.”

Her red hair was done up, gathered in a ponytail that fell down to her lower back. She wore a dress of blush pink, trimmed with red roses. A fashion of the Spring Court. And not her taste at all.

She did not wait for an invitation, but made her way into the room. He drew back into himself instinctively, and Ianthe stood up in front of him.

“We’re sorry,” Bron said, out of breath, “we tried to stop her.”

“It’s alright.”

“Oh, don’t glamour yourself on my account,” Amarantha said. “Ianthe, wonderful to see you, as always.”

“Amarantha. What are you doing here? You are not welcome.”

“I only came to congratulate the new High Lord on his ascension. As the Spring Court’s closest ally.”

His mouth ached. He ran his tongue over his canines. But held them back.

“Ianthe. Bron. Leave us.”

“But—“ Ianthe started.

“This won’t take long. Go.”

She bowed, glaring at Amarantha before she left with Bron.

“Come to take the rest of my Court with you?”

She grinned. “Was that all that’s left, then? Those three?”

“What do you want?”

“Only to congratulate you, as I said. And pay my respects.”

“Is that why you’re in that ridiculous dress? It doesn’t suit you.”

She straightened herself. “Neither does this lesser form you’ve resigned yourself to. Do you know how beautiful you are?”

“I don’t need, or want, your flattery.”

“Perhaps if I wore priestess robes instead?”

“She is my friend. You are nothing to me.”

“Really? And yet you sent them away. Maybe it’s because you know they are nothing. They are not what you need now. They cannot help you.”

“But you can?”

“Much of your Court has fled to my lands.”

“You mean the king’s?”

Her left eye twitched slightly. “Yes. But it’s my home, too. And now the home of most of your Court.”

“And what? You want me to beg for them back, is that it?”

“Our lands have been allies and partners for centuries, Tamlin.”

“I’m aware.” He had been to Hybern so many times, as a child.

“Now is not the time to run from us. From me. You need me.”

“I need nothing from you.”

“Do you? Look around. What do you have? A common priestess. A few loyal soldiers from the war bands. The king of Hybern is powerful. His magic. His army, with me leading them.”

“His magic, his army, and you leading them, still lost the war.”

She looked at him angrily. “You have no training, no sense of how to lead. No idea of how to speak to a foreign dignitary. You can’t do this on your own. But if we finally join our lands. Your people will return to you, and no one will dare—“

“That’s what this is about? This dress, and your fawning? You think I’ll be desperate enough to finally marry you?”

She blinked rapidly. “It is not desperation. It is wisdom. It is prudent. And it would be foolish to refuse.”

“As you said. I have had no training. No guidance on how to lead. I suppose I am a fool.”

She moved a step closer. He moved back in response, but he was already against the table.

“I am truly sorry for the loss of your family. I am sure it is difficult to think clearly. They were almost my family as well. I mourn your father. Your mother—“

“Don’t speak of my mother.”

“I am sorry, Tamlin.”

His eyes blazed, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. But this, at least, from her was genuine.

“It should never have happened. They took advantage of you. It’s what they do. Seduce, manipulate. Wear a mask, hiding their true intentions. And you have been so lonely. Join our lands. I will stand by your side. We can get revenge on the Night Court for what they did…together.”

“Revenge…” He looked past her, and smoke was in his eyes.

“Yes. Those brutes have sat in comfort for long enough. They cannot stand against our combined might.”

He saw Rhys staring back at him, his eyes black, and full of fury. He blinked, and looked at her, at her black eyes. There was nothing behind them but malice.

He spoke quietly, and calmly.

“I don’t want any revenge, Amarantha. I want nothing from you. I want nothing with you. I will never want you. Ever. Now get out.”

“Tamlin…” She moved forward, putting her hand on his arm. “Please.”

He wrested his arm from her. He could feel it, growing. The sharpness against his lip, the pain against his skin. As he lifted his arm against her, they came out. His fangs, and his claws.

She backed away a step. But smiled, eyes wide. “Now there he is. There is the male who murdered another High Lord without a second thought. Of course, it was right. To kill him, in revenge. Right to give your father the information to kill his wife and daughter. I know everyone has left you. They see you as nothing but a beast. And you are. You are powerful, and brutal, and feral. I understand. I see you, Tamlin. We are the same.”

“We are not the same.”

“Do you still have the wings? That you ripped from them? I would love to see them.”

“No.”

“Pity. They would have made a wonderful trophy.”

He wavered, looking at the chain around her neck, the finger against pink chiffon. An eye swiveling wildly on her hand. And the claws retracted. The poking against his lip was gone.

“Get out.”

“Tamlin—“

“I reject your offer. I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help. You are not welcome here. You will leave my Court, and the Night Court, alone. If you want to know what will happen if you refuse, ask the former High Lord of the Night Court.”

She was silent a moment, an unreadable expression on her face. “Very well. But I would reconsider my offer. It won’t be on the table forever. And then you really will have to beg.”

“I will never beg, or bow to you.”

She only smiled, and turned, and left.

“Ianthe.” He heard her say, before her steps disappeared. A moment later, Ianthe was in the room.

“Are you alright?” She asked.

“Were you there the whole time?”

She demurred. “I was worried.”

“I’m fine.”

“I can see that.”

He flexed his hands again. “Her coming here was inevitable. I had to deal with her once and for all”

“And now you will never have to again. As High Lord.”

“No.” He looked at the door. “I won’t.”

She smiled, following his gaze.

He had once thought to leave this place, and the stain of his father’s legacy, and Hybern—forever. To become part of Night. It had been a silly, childish dream. And it was over. He was a coward, and a traitor, and a murderer. He was a beast. And he was forever tied to these lands. But they were his.

He began walking.

“Tamlin,” Ianthe followed behind, struggling to keep up with his long strides. “Where are you going?”

“To meet with your father. I don’t want just anyone walking onto my lands.”

Her smile deepened. “Yes, Tamlin.”

“And don’t bow to me. There will be none of that here.”

“As you wish.”

He stopped. “You are my friend. You will always be my friend. I won’t forget what you’ve done for me. You, and your family. That you stayed. I will never forget that.”

She inclined her head.

“Ianthe…”

“It was not a bow. And you don’t have to thank me,” she said, taking his arm. “Ever. As you said, we are friends. I will always be on your side.”

@tamlinweek 2024 Day One: Heir of Spring

#tamlin week 2024 #tamlin #acotar

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