Type A: "Tamlin didn't do anything to save Feyre UTM, he used his chance for a quickie"
Type B: "Tamlin couldn't do anything to save Feyre UTM, she had a bargain with Amarantha"
Tamlin did the most important thing to save Feyre from UTM - HE SENT HER HOME!!!
I know most people are talking about the specific interval of UTM after Feyre already got into the middle of the events, but seriously the best decisions are the preventive ones and Tamlin did it.
Have you seen that meme about how stupid Amarantha was for continuing to pursue Tamlin, even though she had Rhys for herself?Poise.... In my head, If Rhys were a real person, he'd be disgusted by all the fans who do this.I think he would even go so far as to defend Tamlin, because NO ONE wants to be the object of affection for an abusive, tyrannical, and pedophilic woman.
It's the most anti-Tamlin and anti-Rhys meme disguised as a compliment I've ever seen... What's worse is that this meme is accompanied by people saying, "That's why I believe they were partners, because there's no way a person could be like that over Tamlin." The drama is literally Feyre being Tamlin's heroine.... because she loves him
You know, I personally can dislike a character and still understand that even they don't deserve to be harassed, psychologically pressured, or raped....
It's such a ridiculous "who's better" meme, especially when we know Rhys had to put himself in that position...
I didn't want to get to this point, but here goes... What if it were the other way around? What if Amarantha was a man and Tamlin and Rhys were women? It's not just Sarah who doesn't take abuse issues seriously... These people don't either, and it's not their fault! It's the book's own fault for not dwelling much on Tamlin's abuse and focusing on the abuse of Rhys somehow very distorted "a choice" of his... And the fact that Tamlin is toxic/abusive in the second book completely negated the persecution and harassment he would suffer from Amarantha. To the point that nowadays the theory that Amarantha and Tamlin are partners is only considered because... They deserve each other... I think that's the argument that supports this theory.
Download this stock image: Lynx carrying kitten - 2K4209P from Alamy's library of millions of high resolution stock photos, illustrations an
This is a true picture of Tilly and Tam when she was a child !
Also, Chapter 12 is out here <3, featuring Feyre loosing her temper, Tilly snaping, LoA, Eris, Rhysand and Tamlin doing something together (to protect Tilly, but still) and much more !
Chapter 11 here
Chapter 12 below the cut or on AO3
Tamlin was adjusting his jacket when Tilia emerged from her room. She wore a long green gown with a high neck, gold-embroidered puffed sleeves, and an open back, its colors echoing those her father favored. As for the High Lord, he had donned a dark green doublet and straight-cut brown trousers that tucked into boots freshly polished by the valet accompanying them. He smiled at his daughter, unable to help but notice the striking resemblance to Lita whenever she wore her dark hair loose and dressed in something other than a military uniform.
With a wave of his hand, he dispelled the glamour concealing his antlers from view; the stag-like horns only heightened his aura of raw power. Unlike a stag, whose antlers grew in the spring and fell off in the winter, his had grown; like those of the male of his family, when he reached sexual maturity, and had never shed, thanks to the eternal spring. Yet he kept them concealed most of the time, feeling more like a wild beast than a High Lord.
"Really?" his daughter asked. "Is Spring showing its wild side?"
He nodded, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and Tilly did the same; her pointed ears shifted and elongated at the crown of her head, transforming into those of a lynx. Though she hadn't inherited her mother's wings, nor her father's antlers, she had gained some of her father's shapeshifting abilities, allowing her to transform into a lynx whenever the need arose. Tamlin stroked the black tuft atop one of his daughter's spotted ears. She had been so adorable when she first discovered her powers. She was just a tiny child then, barely knee-high, and lacked full control over the shifting; consequently, the little princess would sometimes be found in the form of a lynx kitten, racing through the manor at breakneck speed and sending servants, courtiers, and especially Mili, who was trying to teach her proper manners at the time, screaming in alarm.
Back then, Tamlin would often find her lying on a sofa in the music room, basking in the sunlight, as if she had no desire to return to her fae form. And how well he understood that. Life was simpler in animal form, yet that was no solution. It had taken patience and a great deal of time to teach her to master that other shape, to ensure she didn't hurt herself by accidentally unsheathing her claws, or bite her tongue on fangs that were sometimes a little too sharp. Lucien had patched up plenty of those minor scrapes. How many times had claw marks been left on a table or Tamlin’s desk during a somewhat too heated argument? How many times had she bared teeth that were a little too long during a meeting of the Ducal Council? But she had eventually learned. Her father had been a good teacher; after all, he had gone through it himself. He remembered all too well the days when his brothers thought it amusing to tear out his claws whenever he failed to retract them. And he would let nothing of the sort would ever happen to his daughter.
"It is time to remind them why we are to be feared."
As Lucien stepped out of his room, adjusting the clasps of his elegant trousers, a servant knocked and bowed to Tamlin.
"Your Majesty, Her Highness the Lady of Autumn has requested an audience."
While Tilia frowned and glanced at Lucien, Tamlin signaled the valet to let her in. Elsbeth Vanserra entered, the door closing softly behind her. She wore a long gown of fine silk in shimmering ochre hues that swirled around her calves as she walked. She bowed respectfully to Tamlin, who acknowledged her with a nod, then embraced Tilly, kissing her on both cheeks.
"Dearest, what a pleasure to see you. Look at you, how beautiful you are. The spitting image of your mother. Isn't that right, High Lord?"
Tamlin nodded, then Elsbeth saw Lucien and froze. Her son, her beloved son. How long had it been since she had seen him? Too long, as any mother would say.
She released Tilly and slowly approached her child.
"Lulu," she whispered. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight. "My son, my beloved son."
Behind her, Tamlin placed his arm around Tilia’s shoulders. "Lady Elsbeth, Lu, we’ll leave you two alone. We’ll be waiting downstairs."
The door closed softly behind them, and Lucien sat in an armchair near a stained-glass window; his mother followed. He warmed the teapot with his fingertips and poured a cup of tea for her.
"My dearest son, how are you?" she asked softly.
"I'm fine, Mother. Better, actually. Better for the first time in years."
She nodded.
"I heard you were back in Greenwood with Tamlin. You and the Archeron sister severed the bond, correct?"
"Yes, Mother. It was for the best. No need to lecture me."
"I wasn't planning to lecture you, my dear," she replied, taking a sip of tea. "I just wanted to talk to you about it."
"To tell me what? That I'm making a mistake? That a bond shouldn't be broken?" Lucien asked, suddenly defensive.
"Lucien, really, I value your happiness far more than some stupid bond."
"Do you? What happened to the female who considered a mating bond sacred?"
He stood up abruptly, turning his back on his mother to gaze out the window at the fading light.
"Lucien-"
"Do you know why I never write to you, Mother? Why I never came to visit, not even in secret? Because you decided the bond tying you to Beron was more important than me."
"That isn't true, my darling; your father and I-"
"My father? Or the man who tormented me for years because I didn't look enough like him?" Elsbeth lowered her eyes. "What, did you think I wouldn't find out? Everyone knows my father isn't Beron, but Helion. Everyone ! All of Prythian!"
"Lucien, you are my son!"
"That isn't the trump card you seem to think it is."
"Enough!" Elsbeth shouted, rising sharply. "I didn't come here to argue with you."
"Then why?"
"I just wanted to say how happy I am that you’re free from a bond that wasn’t right for you. Tamlin is a charming young male, and-"
"None of this has anything to do with Tamlin."
"I know, but I’m happy about it all the same. Lucien, my dear, I know you suffered greatly because of your fa- because of Beron. But now, I’m just glad you’re safe."
"Not thanks to you," her son muttered.
Elsbeth’s eyes filled with tears, and Lucien bitterly regretted his words. He leaned toward her and pulled her into his arms.
"Mama, I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that."
"No, you’re right; I failed to protect you. To protect all of you," she sniffled against his shoulder.
"It wasn’t your fault. No one can stand up to Beron. I don’t blame you."
She nodded, her tears soaking her son’s jacket.
"No matter," she continued. "I’m just glad you’re no longer in Velaris. Those people- well- I don’t trust them. Not with my son. Rhysand is a shadowy figure; I find it so hard to read his game. And his mate, she seems so volatile to me. One day she loved Tamlin more than anything; the next, she was destroying his life and his court. And her sister... I don’t even have the words to describe her. And poor Tamlin, Amarantha hurt him so deeply."
"Thank you, Mother; I appreciate that. But I don’t need you going on a crusade against Elain."
"Really? Eris claims she cheated on you, though."
"We hadn’t accepted the bond."
"Even so, my dear. I find the way she treated you unfair. "
Tamlin and Tilia walked down a vast corridor illuminated by a glass roof studded with strings of faelights that mimicked the brightness of day. Around them, servants of various fae races bustled about, clad in colorful liveries that echoed the hues of the sky at different times of day. Pausing in an alcove shielded from prying eyes, Tamlin stopped.
"Tilly, sweetheart, it is of the utmost importance that everything goes smoothly tonight."
She nodded.
"I know."
"Cela inclut la Night Court. Compris ?" he added in the High Language of Spring, glancing around. He was certain Helion had eyes and ears everywhere. After all, didn't he and Kat do the same in his own court?
The female pursed her lips in a look of disapproval.
"Dad, I-"
"No, Tilia. Ce dont notre court, notre peuple a besoin, c'est de la reprise du commerce et des exportations pour prosperer à nouveau. Pas d'une guerre ou d'un conflit." A resumption of trade; no war, no conflict.
"The Night Court accounts for only a small fraction of our economy," she protested.
"A small part, but a part nonetheless. After five decades of conflict, I refuse to be the one to start another."
"Our court is calling for vengeance for the actions of Feyre Archeron and Rhysand. The ducal council-"
"Is divided. Anna Henrietta agrees with me."
"Anna Henrietta wants to sell her wine. Bastian wants blood, and so does Berlioz."
"Et je refuse d'être celui qui le fera couler." Which simply meant: no.
"Papa..."
"No, Tilia. I am still the one who makes the decisions. Not you, not the council. So if I say there will be no conflict, there will be no conflict. Is that clear? Tonight will go well. You will make an effort. S'il te plaît."
Lucien and Elsbeth were the last to arrive in the banquet hall, inevitably drawing attention. The room was vast, with floors of white and gold marble, and wall-mounted fountains filling the air with the gentle murmur of water. They were shown to their seats. The Lady of Autumn took her place beside her husband, between Beron and Alix, Thesan’s consort, while Lucien found himself seated between Feyre and Cressida.
The delegations had been separated, leaving Lucien in no doubt that Beron had insisted his wife sit beside him. Whether by Helion’s design or sheer coincidence, Tilia was seated between Elain and Kalias, while Tamlin found himself between Viviane and Tarquin. Lucien quickly noticed the absence of both Cassian and Azriel, likely for the best, and saw that only Feyre’s two sisters were accompanying the Night Court. Nesta wore her usual smug expression, whereas Elain looked ghastly to him. She had lost a great deal of weight, and her normally rosy complexion had turned a sickly grey. There was no doubt she was suffering from the severed bond just as much as he was. He hoped, at the very least, that Helion might be able to do something to ease her pain.
He was served a glass of wine, and Feyre turned to him, clinking her glass gently against his.
"I’m glad you’re sitting next to me, Lu. To be honest, I was hoping to talk to you."
"Really?" he muttered, trying to catch Tamlin’s eye.
"Look, I know things didn't end well between you and Elain. But she’s young, you have to understand that."
"Stop treating her with such condescension. She’s older than you."
"But less well-versed in Fae practices. I know that- "
"Barely less well-versed. She knew what she was doing. I knew what she was doing. The rest is none of your business," Lucien replied sharply.
She placed her hand on his forearm.
"Lucien," she whispered, "I miss you; you’re my friend."
"Your friend? Or a means to achieve your ends?"
"What do you mean?"
"Did you bring me along because you liked me, or was it to deal the final blow to Tamlin? Hmm?"
"Of course I like you !"
"You used me, Feyre. Admit it. Back at the Spring Court, in Velaris, during the war. I was never your friend. I was always just a tool to you."
She stiffened.
"Just as you were to Tamlin."
He shook his head.
"No, that’s not true. Tamlin and I are friends. Not that you’d really know what that means. Who are your friends? Your mate'sbrothers? His cousin? You have no friends, Feyre. You have subjects, you have a mate, you have sisters you treat poorly."
"I am High Lady; I have to maintain a certain distance between them and myself."
"If that’s what you believe." Lucien’s tone was sharp.
"It’s the truth."
He shook his head, said nothing, and took another sip of wine.
On the other side of the table, Tarquin leaned toward Tamlin.
"I’m glad we’re sitting side by side. It feels like ages since we last spoke."
"Really? I hadn't noticed," Tamlin replied, taking a bite of the delicate dish that had just been served to them. At the far end of the table, Lucien appeared annoyed by the conversation he was having with Feyre, causing the High Lord to frown.
"I know you’re upset that I helped Feyre when she came to Adriata with Rhysand."
"Upset that you didn't tell me you’d seen my fiancée, when I was searching for her everywhere and thought Rhysand was torturing her? I can't imagine where you'd get that idea," Tamlin replied, sarcasm burning on his lips.
"She begged me not to."
"And you chose to show loyalty to a female you didn't know, who was accompanied by a notorious daemati and who had stolen from you, over loyalty to an ally who has stood by you since your rise to power? Interesting."
"You hold it against me."
Tamlin puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly, then offered Tarquin a sad smile.
"No, not really. You’re young; you’ll learn. I would have made the same mistake in your position."
The Summer Lord nodded, looking for a way to change the subject.
"Lady Tilia is charming. I’d never had the chance to meet her before."
"If I were you, I wouldn't go down that path. She bites," Tamlin chuckled softly.
Tilly exchanged a few words with Kallias before turning her attention back to her wine and her meal. Her father seemed to be enjoying a pleasant conversation with Tarquin, judging by the faint, knowing smile playing on his lips, while Lucien nodded in response to something Cressida was confiding in him. She felt a gentle brush against her mental shield and looked up, her gaze locking with Rhysand’s honeyed stare from across the table. She sighed silently and lowered her mind barriers.
My darling, Rhysand’s voice echoed in her mind, you look beautiful in that dress. The spitting image of your mother, my dear, beloved sister.
What do you want? she replied, refusing to fall for his flattery.
I lament the way recent events have driven us apart. You are my niece, and I miss you.
Recent events? You mean the way you and your mate treated my home?
Your father is-
Don't bring my father into this, she cut him off, continuing before he could protest. I have a friend, you know. Bastian. We’ve known each other a long time. He lives in the western part of the Court, in the area my father didn't have time to evacuate before your dear High Lady declared war on Hybern in his name by killing their envoys. Do you know what happened when Hybern invaded, demanding retribution?
Rhysand didn't answer, much to her annoyance.
He had a little sister. Not an adult, no, she was born under Amarantha’s reign. A child, really. Do you know how she died? Do you know what the soldiers did to her when they found her? A defenseless young female, barely into her teens? They-
Enough! Rhysand shouted in her mind. I get it; thank you.
What is it, dear uncle? Are you uncomfortable hearing about all the horrors you caused? In the last four months, I’ve heard more stories of rape and torture than I could have ever imagined. And I was a soldier, that’s saying something. That blood is on your hands. On your mate's hands. My father’s plan would have worked if you hadn’t ruined everything from the start and you know it.
With those words, she slammed the door of her mental barrier shut. Her hand trembled imperceptibly, and she took another sip of wine to steady herself. Around her, the world dissolved into a dull roar. Her thoughts drifted to Bastian’s little sister, someone she had never known, yet whose horrific death would haunt her for her entire immortal life. All those dead, all those wounded, for what? For whom?
And Andras, her dear Andras. She pictured his skinned body.
He was buried in Volone, the town where he had grown up, yet Tilly had never visited the site. It was too painful to imagine him lying there beneath the earth. She pictured the fig tree her father and Lucien had planted on his grave, tree that would soon bloom and bear fruit. He had always loved figs so much, her dear Andras.
Absentmindedly, she raised a hand to her ears, gently stroking the black tufts that tipped them. She felt a fierce urge to shift, for the first time since her return. To abandon her High Fae body and responsibilities for a few hours, losing herself in the protective, primal nature of her bobcat form. She was roused from her thoughts by Eris’s voice.
"Tilia? My dear?"
"Hm?" she asked.
"I was telling dear Elain that I wasn't actually the most sought-after bachelor in Prynthian high society, you were."
Lucien laughed.
"True enough; at your age, you’re nothing but an old bachelor," he teased good-naturedly.
Nesta gave Eris a mocking smile.
"In your case, we know it’s involuntary. It’s not for lack of trying."
Before Eris could answer, Tilia added sarcastically:
"Oh, but my celibacy involuntary, too."
"Really?" Nesta asked, raising her eyebrows.
Tilly could tell she was curious, and she knew that curiosity was entirely innocent. Just the sort of conversation one might have over dinner. Yet, she couldn't help making a biting remark.
"Of course; ask your sister if you want more details."
Tamlin’s voice rang out like a warning.
"Tilia..."
But she merely shrugged.
"What do you mean?" Feyre asked, bewildered.
"Oh, you know perfectly well," Tilly replied nastily.
"Tilia, that’s enough!" Tamlin said sharply, before continuing in High Springish, "Souviens toi de notre conversation !", reminding her of their talk in the alcove.
She pursed her lips and lowered her head. Feyre, however, couldn't help pressing the issue.
"Tilia, darling, I assure you I don't understand what you're referring to."
Tilly couldn't have said whether it was the "darling" or the feigned innocence that set her off, but she lifted her chin, glaring daggers.
"I’m referring to the maleI loved, whom you skinned, Feyre. And to all the others whose lives you’ve destroyed. Stop playing the innocent; I know what you are. I know who you are. A murderer, a war criminal who thinks only of her own interests and her-"
"That’s enough!" Rhysand shouted, straightening up in his chair.
"Are you afraid of the truth, Uncle?" Tilia asked.
Elain, sitting beside her, had gone deathly pale. "Feyre, what does that mean? Skinned? It's awful."
"At least he was dead," Tilly grimaced. "If only that were the worst thing she'd-"
Feyre lost control of the surge of power that washed over her. She felt cornered, backed against a wall. The way Elain, gentle Elain, was looking at her in horror made her stomach churn. A violent blast of energy shot across the table toward Tilia. She just wanted her to be quiet. Just wanted her to stop.
Tilly threw her arms up to shield her face, but the wave of flame never reached her.
A full meter before it could even hit her own shield, the blast was stopped dead by a wall of dark shadows and green-and-gold light. She turned her head toward her father, who had risen from his chair. Tamlin’s claws were unsheathed, digging into the soft wood of the table. Across from her, Rhysand had stood up as well. The two males exchanged a look, and Tamlin gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. Feyre looked horrified. She stammered an apology, but Tilly pushed back her chair and turned to Helion with a forced smile.
As the door closed behind his daughter, Tamlin exchanged a glance with Lucien. He nodded silently and rose as well, without a word. He followed her out, joining her on a balcony overlooking the city below.
"Sweetheart!" he called out, grabbing her wrist.
She turned back to face him, her eyes brimming with tears.
"You almost married her!" she cried, pounding violently against his chest.
Tamlin did not back away. He did not protest. He simply caught her other hand before she could strike him again. Bitter tears streamed down Tilly’s cheeks.
"How could you do that? How could you, after what she’d done to him? After what she’d done to Andras?" she sobbed.
Tamlin pulled her close, resting his chin on her head, between her fur ears.
"I know, my darling. I’m sorry."
She wept on, the tears seemingly endless, her body racked by violent sobs.
Feyre felt wretched. She had attacked Tilia unintentionally; her power still slipped from her control at times when she was under pressure. The princess’ accusations had shaken her. She vividly remembered the wolf she had skinned, nearly five years ago now, and whose pelt she had sold. She hadn't thought about it in a long time, neither about the wolf nor the fact that it had been a member of Tamlin’s court.
Rhysand and Tamlin had risen simultaneously, shielding the female in unison, and her mate had shot her a look of disapproval. She had tried to reach out to him through their bond, but he hadn't answered. He had completely shut her out after offering a hollow apology on Feyre’s behalf, words that seemed to burn his lips.
She had stared at Tilia’s empty chair, and Tamlin’s, throughout the dinner; when it seemed polite enough to leave, she stood up to go look for the princess.
She walked down the hallway, where large windows overlooked the street, guards patrolling past without noticing her, and stepped out onto a wide balcony. Below, the city bustled in the cool night air.
"What are you doing here, Feyre?" Tamlin asked, spitting out her name as if it were poison.
He was alone, leaning against the railing with his back to her.
"I- I was looking for Tilia," she stammered.
He turned toward her, his green eyes flashing with anger.
"Why? To attack her again?"
"Of course not!" she defended herself. "To apologize."
Tamlin’s brows, previously furrowed, softened, yet his face remained cold and guarded. "She left, she needed some air."
Feyre nodded, realizing there was no point in arguing, and turned on her heel, heading toward the glass door.
Just as her hand touched the handle, he stopped her.
"Feyre," he called out.
She looked at him. His back was turned to her again, his shoulders tense.
"Now that you have a child, you understand that what I’m about to say isn't personal. My daughter is the most precious thing I have ever had, or ever will have. There is nothing I wouldn't do to protect her. Nothing at all. I may hold to moral values that keep me from seeking retribution for what you did to my court, or from being petty toward you, your mate, or your older sister. But don't make the mistake of thinking those values will hold if someone goes after my daughter. Threaten her again, and I will come for you and yours, and no magical or family bond, no moral code, will stop me. Is that clear?"
She was about to protest. She was about to make promises. She was about to deny it. But before she could do anything, the door opened to reveal Lucien, who frowned when he saw her.
"Feyre?" he asked, surprised.
Tamlin turned around, offering Lucien a half-smile as if she weren't even there.
"Lucien, what are you doing here?" she asked.
He looked at Tamlin.
"I got a message from Ara and Josh. They're hosting a party on the south side of town. Want to go?" Tamlin looked down at the palace door through which Tilia had left, knowing full well that she wouldn't return until morning and that there was nothing he could do.
Chapters 7 to 10 here on Tumblr
Chapter 11 below the cut or on AO3
TW : the first part of the chapter is a description of rape. If you are not comfortable reading it, just scroll down until the text is not in italics anymore (about a third of the chapter). You can easily skip that part, as it's a flashback. Please be mindful of your boundaries <3
She was standing before him, advancing with a feline grace. He stepped back as she drew nearer. He would not look at her. He would not give her the satisfaction of laying eyes on her. And for what, anyway? He knew what he would see. He knew the contours of her fine-featured face, the shape of her eyes, the amaranth red of her hair. She wore her name well; he could at least grant her that.
"Aren't you going to speak to me, my darling?" she asked, a note of defiance in her voice.
He did not answer. He never did. What was the point in it anyway.
"I must admit, your human is faring way better than I would have thought."
She shrugged.
"But it won't be enough, the poor thing. My darling Tamlin, you place too much hope in her. Far too much."
He stared at a point behind her as she raised her hands to undo her intricate updo. Her long hair cascaded over her shoulders, and then she unfastened her bodice. Her blood-red dress pooled at her feet like a sinister puddle, quickly followed by her undergarments. She stepped closer, and he retreated a little more, his knees bumping against the bed. She gave him a shove; he fell onto his back on the silky bed, closing his eyes.
"Look at me, my love," she commanded.
He opened his eyes but fixed his gaze on a crack in the ceiling.
Amarantha sighed dramatically, shaking her head. "Doesn't matter," she said. "You are mine anyway. Not hers. Mine."
She turned her attention to his shirt first, tearing off the buttons one by one. Then his trousers. He did not react. Did not move. Did not speak. The crack in the ceiling branched out into smaller fissures, and he studied them. She caressed him, letting out a satisfied moan as his body, that traitor, responded to her touch. He didn't want to be there. He wasn't there. The ceiling didn't exist; it was a starry sky. The crackling of the hearth was the sound of the campfire Andras had lit. The hand caressing him, the body straddling him, surronding him, it was Feyre, it was Lucien, it was Lita. It was anyone but her.
"You won't speak to me, yet your body wants me. It knows better than you do, it seems. Less stuborn. I could give you so much pleasure if only you’d deign to look at me. To speak to me. There’s no point in resisting. You know that, don't you ? We played this little game enough. Accept it already."
She began to move down on his traitoriously hard lenght.
"You know," she continued after a moment, "I often think about your mate. Dear Lita. It’s ironic, it seems you don’t have a 'type'; she was as dark-haired as the human is blonde. All curves, whereas the human is nothing but bone. So radiant, so gentle."
The ceiling was white; the wood of the moldings was old. Amarantha didn't know Lita. She had never met her. The though of that made him want to throw up. Lita, so sweet, so kind. Amarantha, the opposite.
"I regret her death, sometimes. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked your father to kill her."
Tamlin felt his blood run cold.
"Oh, you didn't know? But I did ask him! You belong to me, Tamlin. You always have. How could she have believed you belonged to her... though, now that I think about it, I wish I’d killed her myself. You know I’m the one who has her wings? Her lovely wings, your father sent them to me just before he died. His final gift. They’re in Hybern. I’ll have them brought here. They’d make such a beautiful headboard for our bed, don't you think?"
She slid her hand between her thighs, touching herself, quickening her movements and letting out a moan. Tamlin stared into the distance, far beyond the ceiling. It wasn't him. It wasn't her. It wasn't here, nor now. And his body, his traitorous body, was burning, responding to her caresses. He wanted to groan, despite himself, as she had her way with him. He loathed himself. He loathed her, yes, but even more, he loathed himself.
"And Tilia, dearest Tilia. What a shame the Attor can't get its hands on her. But I know we'll find her. The three of us will make such a lovely family."
She let out a guttural cry, throwing her head back. "You, my High King; me, your High Queen; and our little princess. That is how it will be, Tamlin."
Tamlin felt his grip on reality slipping.
Please, no, he pleaded to any god who might be listening. No, no, no, no.
"We’ll get rid of Lucien and the human female; we won’t need them. I’ll tear that fox’s second eye right out and give it to you as a wedding gift, oh yes, my love."
She cried out and arched her back, and his body, his wretched, traitorous body, followed hers, crushed by the wave.
Breathless, Amarantha collapsed back down beside him, resting a hand on his chest.
"I hope the Cauldron blesses us with a child soon, my darling. I can’t wait to give Tilia a sibling."
Tamlin jerked awake. His claws were unsheathed, having torn the sheets around him. He was sweating and gasping for air; he sat up, clutching his head in his hands.
"No, no, no," he whispered. "No, you're dead. You're dead."
He couldn't stay here. He needed air. He needed to breathe, to disappear. He left his room and wandered the corridors. The moon was beginning its descent across the sky; dawn would soon break. He ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair.
He needed air. He needed to breathe.
He opened the door leading to the gardens, took a few steps, and sank down onto the grass before his mother’s rosebed.
"Tam?" a voice called from behind him.
He didn't answer. It wasn't real. He rubbed his temples, trying to steady his breathing. His heart was racing; his hands were trembling.
"Tam?" Lucien repeated from behind him, kneeling down at his side. "Damn it, what’s wrong? Are you all right?"
A hand brushed against him. Her. She was all he could see. In the dim moonlight, Lucien’s red hair looked blood-red. Like hers.
Her.
Her.
"Leave me alone!" he shouted, violently shoving Lucien away, who fell backward onto the ground.
Tamlin’s heart raced even faster. He couldn't breathe. Air, he needed air.
"Tam, you’re having a panic attack." Lucien moved closer.
"Lu?" the High Lord whispered softly.
"Look at me, it’s me. Shush, it’s okay. Breathe. In and out. Come on, nice and slow."
Tamlin obeyed, focusing on Lucien’s voice. The redhead’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him close.
Lucien’s hands found Tamlin’s face; he caressed his cheekbones, wiping away the tears as he did so. "It’s okay. She’s dead."
He nodded, but Lucien didn't let go. He held Tamlin a little tighter, the blond man burying his face in the crook of his neck.
Lucien smelled good. He smelled like rosemary, thyme, cold embers. That scent, the warmth of his skin, it was so grounding that Tamlin wanted to press a kiss right there, on the tender skin where his neck met his shoulder
"It’s okay," Lucien repeated, his cheek resting against Tamlin’s hair. "It’s okay. She’s dead. I’m here. It’s all right."
Without thinking, or perhaps more out of habit, he planted a kiss on the silky blond hair. Then a second. Tamlin snuggled closer, his hands caressing Lucien’s back over his nightshirt. He lifted his head gently, and Lucien’s lips explored his hairline, his forehead, his nose, and his tear-streaked cheekbones. Softly, the redhead found his jawline, the dimple in his chin, and finally, his lips.
It felt like coming home after a long exile. Tamlin’s mouth parted slightly, their tongues met, and the world around them ceased to exist.
Tamlin’s fingers tugged at Lucien’s shirt, sliding up his hips against his bare skin, leaving shivers in their wake. Suddenly, he froze.
Before Lucien could react, Tamlin pulled away.
"Tam, what-"
Tamlin sprang to his feet, as if Lucien’s skin had burned him.
"I’m sorry," was all he said before vanishing.
Lucien sat alone for a moment, feeling utterly foolish as he remained in the dew-dampened grass. When the cold became too much to bear, he went back to his room. In the adjoining bathroom, he ran a bath and undressed, lost in thought. Whatever had happened in the gardens, he wasn't sure he understood it. He removed his nightshirt and trousers, turning his back to the mirror. With his fingertips, he traced the path Tamlin’s hands had taken against his skin. He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of Tamlin’s lips against his own. There had been no Feyre, no Elain, no Amarantha. There had been only the two of them. That was all it took to send a shiver of arousal through him; his body responded instantly to the memory of Tamlin’s touch. He idly caressed a scar on his lower back, one of the many left by Tamlin’s whip back Under the Mountain. It was smooth, pink, and sensitive, but he couldn't help but smile.
They had survived. They had returned. And these scars were the proof.
Helion had managed to gather all the High Lords for the week-long celebration of Pirina, a sacred festival of his court, and Lucien had to admit it was quite impressive.
Tilia, Tamlin, and he had arrived earlier that day and were shown to a massive suite featuring three bedrooms and bathrooms, a living area, and a huge balcony overlooking plains that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Tilia had marveled at the windows with their intricate stained glass and the enormous pink marble bathtubs, while Tamlin had slumped onto a pale blue velvet sofa. Lucien sat opposite him and conjured a deck of cards. He dealt in silence, and Tamlin took his hand without a word. They hadn't been alone together since that night in the gardens. Wherever they went, there were courtiers, or Tilly, or Kat, or Mili. Never just the two of them.
While their little princess luxuriated in a bath of warm donkey milk, Tamlin and Lucien did their best to pretend everything was normal between them. Hand after hand, round after round, the wall of ice that had risen between them began to crack.
"Won!" Tamlin suddenly declared, without looking at Lucien. "My poor fox, you're going soft."
"Or I'm letting you win, my dear," he retorted, eyeing the blond man. He couldn't help but find Tamlin magnificent like this, in the fading daylight; the sun made his blond hair shine even more brightly than usual, illuminated his golden skin, and cast a magical gleam in his eyes.
Tamlin looked up, and their eyes met. Lucien couldn't suppress a smile, and Tamlin smiled back, a dimple deepening in his right cheek. Lucien felt his heart race.
"How are you feeling?" he asked softly. "We're seeing Elain tonight."
"And Feyre."
Tamlin let out a soft laugh.
"The Archeron sisters will be the death of us."
Lucien smiled and turned his attention back to the cards, feigning casual interest. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Hm? Of course."
"It wasn't Feyre, was it?"
"What do you mean?"
"You were together for six months. It wasn't Feyre who hurt you so much."
Tamlin looked up from his cards, running a hand through his hair. His green eyes had suddenly darkened, taking on the hues of a forest at dusk. "I suppose not." When Lucien didn't reply, he continued, "It was an accumulation of little things, you know? Feyre, Tilly being gone, all of our friends we lost…all of that."
"Amarantha?"
The High Lord froze, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his cards tight. He didn't answer.
"You don't want to talk about it."
"No."
Lucien nodded.
"Do you want to talk about Elain?"
"Not really."
Tamlin set his cards down on the small table. Then, resting his chin on his hand, he leaned toward Lucien.
"This isn't a solution, is it?"
The redhead nodded with a sigh. No, it wasn't a solution. Talking was the hardest part, but it was also the most relieving.
"Amarantha had ordered my father to kill Lita. She... she told me. Under the Mountain. I..." he hesitated, "I didn't know, and she took a twisted pleasure in telling me. She loved it. Taking the time to describe in detail how she would kill you, Feyre and you, while she… But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was her sick, perverse eagerness to get her hands on Tilly. And my inability to protect you. My helplessness. Sometimes, in my dreams, she kills you, and I’m right there, forced to watch you bleed out. And I could have saved you, if only I’d given her what she wanted, but-"
"No, Tam. There was nothing you could have done."
"I could have saved Andras. And Tilly wouldn't have had to-"
"You know perfectly well you did what had to be done."
Tamlin sighed, nervously tapping his index finger against his thigh, his gaze drifting into the distance. Lucien placed his cards down and walked around the table to slump onto the sofa beside him.
"I don't want to see Elain. But I feel like I owe it to her. It's strange."
"You don't owe it to her."
"I know, but... but you see, I think ever since we... we parted ways, I’ve always wanted a mate. Someone for me. Someone who wouldn't leave me."
Tamlin avoided his gaze.
"I'm sorry."
"Me too. And I did get my mate in the end. And for what? Just so she could sleep with fucking Azriel."
The blond turned toward him, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "And do you blame her?"
"What?" Lucien asked, surprised.
"Sleeping with Azriel, admit it's tempting."
They looked at each other for a moment, then Lucien burst out laughing.
"You're silly!" he gasped.
Tamlin let his gaze drift to Lucien. His hair tied back in a low ponytail, his golden scar on his cheek, the light stubble that he hadn't yet shaved off.
He had felt so guilty when the male he loved came back bloodied and with one eye. He had watched over Lucien's bedside for days, until he woke up. He had looked at the scar every day, for decades, consumed with guilt. But now he didn't feel that way anymore. He found himself wanting to trace the contours of this scar with his fingers, with his mouth. Lucien appeared even more perfect like that, which was counter-intuitive. And yet.
He swallowed, and Lucien regained his seriousness.
"What happened the other night, Tam?"
Tamlin closed his eyes.
"I had a nightmare, that’s all."
"I don’t talk about that and you know it" Lucien murmured, getting closer to him. He touched his hand with his fingertips. "If I did something that-"
"No!" Tamlin protested sharply. "No, not at all, you were perfect."
"Tam, what if I read the signs wrong and-"
"That's not it. I… I wanted to kiss you. I assure you."
"Then why did you leave?"
Tamlin opened his eyes, staring at Lucien. The world around him suddenly seemed to glow with an unpleasant halo. Nausea filled his senses, his ears ringing.
"I…" he stammered, and Lucien moved a little closer, squeezing his hand in his. "How can you even still want me after everything I’ve done to you?"
"Tam!" protested the redhead.
"I hurt you so much, Lu, I-"
"You are a fool." the redhead whispered, shaking his head.
Tamlin chuckled, raising his hand to caress Lucien's cheek. With his fingertips, he traced the outline of his scar.
Suddenly, a throat clearing was heard behind them. Lucien jumped, and turned around to see Tilly leaning against the door frame. She had a small smile on her lips, and seemed delighted.
"I don't want to interrupt...but we have to get ready. Helion is known to hate lateness..."
I really wanted to understand the intention behind the dialogue between Cassian and Rhys involving Tamlin.
No, I know very well. It's to use "good guy" characters to villainize another character... But the dialogue makes absolutely no sense with ANYTHING we've seen in the three books.
Unfortunately, I won't be able to include the dialogue because I'm too lazy to look it up and translate it into English, lol, but it's basically Cassian or Azriel mentions the danger of Tamlin finding out about Feyre's pregnancy and what he would do, and Rhys saying that he won't know anything.
(If anyone can add the quote in the comments or reblog, I'd appreciate it.)
The scene is meant to make you think Tamlin would do something bad, but if you stop to analyze it, he wouldn't. He wouldn't do anything about it. 1) because he saved Rhys knowingly and told him to be happy... 2) he canonically LOVES Feyre, and at every opportunity he has to protect her, save her, or prevent her from being in danger, he chooses to protect
Why would Tamlin, who wants Feyre's happiness and has accepted that he deserves to be alone, bother trying to do something against the baby and Feyre? The author herself reinforces Tamlin's misery by using Nesta. She blames him for her transformation, tells him to look in the mirror (in a way of showing that he is to blame for his own downfall), and points her finger at him in a threatening manner.
Rhys thinks Tamlin is him. That Tamlin will leave his Court to torment them both, even though Tamlin himself has already accepted that he should be alone and unforgivable.
And even though there are people who want Tamlin to turn the page and transform into the vengeful monster Feyre manipulated him into being in Acowar, that's not going to happen... He's more likely to kill himself than try to get revenge for something he's accepted he deserved. That's because he's already done everything he could in ACOWAR, and yet, nobody cares... He did no more than his duty... To revive Rhys, to be on the right side, to be a double agent, to drag Beron into the war, to fight in it...
