Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The tension in the room was thick as the taste of the brine in the air. High Lord Tarquin sat on the one side of the seal pool in his favorite seasonal residence north of Adriata. Seals gleefully swam circles in the pool and through the tunnels that led beneath the floors to the sea beyond the open window. Occasionally they would splash water in the High Lord’s direction, but his command over the sea kept the droplets from soaking his paperwork. It was hardly a bother, and he did not even have to focus to manage it.

Which was good, because all of his focus was on the millennia-old creature (now months-new High Fae) seated on the other side of the pool.

Amren, the Second to the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court, sat perched on her chair with her knees curled up to her chest. She looked rather like a cat, eyeing the water distrustfully. As she should, Tarquin thought, given that his enchantments had nearly drowned her last year. He still hadn’t decided if he was upset that they hadn’t.

He sighed quietly and shook his head. Varian would have been heartbroken, and he would have had to deal with his sickeningly romantic cousin pining after his lost love for centuries. Tarquin was far from cold-hearted himself, but Varian was surprisingly saccharine when it came to expressing his affections. It was a stark contrast to the female seated across from him now. He still could not fathom how the two of them were compatible at all.

One of the seals slid up onto a ramp near the edge of the pool and bobbed its head to get Tarquin’s attention. I don’t like her, it said to him, mind-to-mind. The ability to communicate with sea creatures was part of his magic that Tarquin enjoyed the most.

You are not alone, my friend, Tarquin said, smiling wryly at the seal. It was one he had named Thabo for its cheerful and mischievous personality. She shall only be here for another day.

I am going to splash her, Thabo said.

Tarquin’s eyebrows shot up. I advise against it.

“Are you talking to that seal?” Amren’s chilly voice cut across the open air of the room. Tarquin looked up to see her silver—though no longer glowing—eyes staring at him and Thabo.

Tarquin tried to appear nonchalant. “It is part of my repertoire of gifts as High Lord,” he said casually.

“I may not have originated in this world, but I was not born yesterday, High Lord. I know when someone is talking about me.”

“Of course not, forgive me. You were born months ago.”

Tarquin regretted the words the moment they’d slipped from his mouth, but the constant care he’d been taking the past week during the holidays to play nice with his cousin’s lover had exhausted him.

Amren’s nostrils flared and she dropped her knees so her feet perched on the floor. “Take care, Tarquin,” she said. “I have several millennia of existence behind me. You have a mere eighty years or so. In my view, you are like a mere gadfly, here today and gone tomorrow.”

Tarquin straightened and stared Amren down. “This is still my court, Amren,” he reminded her. “And if I am a mere gadfly at eighty, what does that make your High Lady at twenty-one?”

Amren did not answer. In fact, she couldn’t, because Thabo had started barking at her. Tarquin’s faced darkened slightly, for only he could understand Thabo’s slew of insults that he hurled at the Night Court denizen.

He could not stop a small snort from escaping at Thabo’s creativity.

“What did he say?” Amren demanded, stabbing her finger at the seal, which was swimming in frantic circles around the pool.

Tarquin took a moment to swallow his laughter and found a trace of disapproval to express. “Forgive me. Thabo is very rude. He has attempted to insult you by saying you resemble an eel with your big eyes, that your voice would make even dolphins cringe, and . . .”

Amren’s lips were pulled back. “And?”

Tarquin cleared his throat. “And—again, he is very rude and I have warned him not to use such insults—he implied you sexually prefer females, as though that would somehow invalidate you.”

Thabo barked a combination of confirmation and protest at Tarquin’s poor translation.

Amren hissed at the seal, who instantly dove beneath the surface and fled back to sea, leaving Tarquin to deal with Amren’s wrath alone. Disloyal wretch.

But Amren surprised Tarquin but smirking at him as soon as the seal was gone. “You think I’ve spent centuries around Illyrians and not learned to handle insults? I’ve never been insulted by an actual animal before, so that was new, at least. It’s rare that I experience something new in this world.”

Tarquin’s heart fluttered in relief. “I am happy you have found a thing or two in my court to provide that for you.”

Amren grinned like a cat and curled her knees to her chest again. “Indeed I have.”

Chapter Text

Rhysand, help me, I begged silently.

What’s the matter, darling? Rhys asked. He wasn’t concerned, because he knew I was out with Amren and Azriel, but . . . that was exactly the trouble.

Both Amren and Azriel are drunk, I replied. It’s . . . I’m learning things I never wanted to know.

I could feel Rhysand’s laughter down the bond. Be thankful, High Lady. Azriel only participates in drunken confessions about once a century. As for Amren, she’s unlikely to remember anything after the hangover she’ll no doubt have. Just sit back and enjoy.

But I don’t— Rhys’s voice went silent on the other end and I clenched my fist on the table in frustration.

“Maybe we should just—” I tried, but Azriel cut me off.

“I’m . . . I’m afraid of parrots,” he slurred. “Claws—their claws are too sharp. And they’re . . . too loud.” Azriel’s black hair hung over his forehead, which in turn was propped up in his left hand. His right hand was curled around a mug. I had no idea what he’d been drinking, but it was strong. It must be something new to Velaris, because I’d yet to taste it, and seeing how quickly it had gotten him drunk made my curiosity die a swift death.

I was not surprised by Amren’s inebriation. After thousands of years of only consuming blood, her new High Fae form had yet to entirely build up the proper constitution for alcohol, especially of Fae make. She’d had too much wine at dinner exactly one time and had sworn the stuff off, until somehow Azriel had insisted she try this new brew with him since Cassian “had no taste” and Mor didn’t like mead.

“They’re not claws,” I corrected, “they’re tal—”

“I HAD SHARP TALONS ONCE,” Amren shouted—a side effect of her drunkenness. “THEY WERE A PAIN TO KEEP CLEAN.”

“Just like wings,” Azriel agreed mournfully. He hiccupped. “D’you know how hard it is to get blood off the membrane?”

“Yes, I do—”

“I MISS DRINKING BLOOD,” Amren said too loudly. Several startled guests in the establishment whipped their heads around to look at her. “LAMB WAS MY FAVORITE.”

“Yes, we know, you had expensive—”

“Rhys never orders lamb anymore,” Azriel said. His brow crinkled adorably and he looked up at me with a pout, rather like a lost puppy. “Make him order lamb, Feyre.”

I stifled a laugh and said, “All right, I’ll—”

“I’M TIRED AND YOU’RE ALL TOO LOUD,” Amren declared. She slammed her mug down on the table for emphasis.

I shook my head. Glorified children, is what they were. I stood and approached her side of the table. “Why don’t we get you—”

“More mead!” Azriel declared.

“No! No more! We’re fin—”

A thud cut off my words as Azriel’s head slipped from his head and he collapsed onto the table, fast asleep. I’d managed to get Amren up and tucked against my side so I could winnow her to her street, but I had no idea what to do about Azriel.

You’ll have to come get your brother, I told Rhys down the bond. You’ll find him passed out in the usual place, muttering something about parrots.

I could almost feel Rhys’s eyeroll. I would be annoyed, but I’ll be able to hold this over his head for centuries.

Glad you’re entertained by this, at least, I said. Amren’s head lolled against my shoulder. She was still conscious, but barely. She jerked and whipped her head around to begin shouting at another patron, and I had to tug her out the door before she started a fight.

Oh, but darling, you’ll be able to hang it over their heads, too, Rhys reminded me.

I considered his words as I prepared to winnow Amren home. You know . . . that just might make this worth it.

Rhys laughed down the bond. I told you.

Chapter Text

“Tarquin.”

The Lord of the Court of the Book whirled around to see Queen Feyre prowling toward him, silver ire burning in her eyes. He looked about him, wondering if he had missed some appointment or conflict that had the High Queen now stalking toward him as though she were ready to run him through.

“My Queen?” he asked, shifting in his stance. His throat was dry. Though he did not fear Feyre—they were friends, of a kind—he never underestimated the difference between their power and station. As High Queen, she technically had the ability to trip his new court from him. Being the only court with split territory, comprised of the former Summer Court and the former Day Court, he was painfully aware of his land’s vulnerabilities, and he was ever protective of them . . . even against Feyre and her mate. “Has something happened?”

Feyre’s lips curled in a snarl. “Perhaps you might want to tell me why Aracely came to our palace alone and in tears?”

Cauldron boil him. Aracely.

“Your Majesty, it’s not—”

“She was hardly three steps in the door when she burst into tears and clung to me like one of Elain’s creeping vines! What did you do?”

Tarquin lifted a hand to massage his brow. He and Aracely had promised not to talk about it, not yet, but he could hardly blame his wife for running to her good friend in her emotional state. “Did she say anything to you?” he asked Feyre.

“She didn’t have to!” Feyre snapped. “Aracely does not cry, Tarquin. Whatever you did . . .” Feyre cut herself off and drew in a deep breath, exhaling through her teeth. “I swore to you when you married her thirty years ago that if you ever hurt her, I would make you suffer for it. Tarquin, I am not happy that I have follow through on that promise!”

Tarquin’s blue eyes widened. This . . . this was far out of control. Feyre thought—oh no.

This could mean his court, all his hard work over the past fifty years, gone, and because of a misunderstanding.

Aracely would kill him for this. They had sworn to each other that they’d keep it between them, especially since her grandfather’s co-regency in the court had only recently passed to her after Helion’s death. The work to unify the two halves of their court was difficult enough without this added complication. But . . . it could all fall apart if Feyre thought he was no longer fit to rule his Court. There would be a tribunal, or some other mess like that, and all of it would be ruined. He would not let Feyre undermine his court again, High Queen or no.

“Feyre,” he said sharply, daring to be informal with her. It might, perhaps, bring her down a peg. “It’s not what you think. At all.”

Feyre’s complex magic was emanating off her like heat waves, shimmering in the air around her. “Oh? I beg you, do enlighten me.” The sarcasm dripped off her words stung like salt water on an open wound. After all that they’d been through together, she couldn’t trust him in this?

Tense silence hung between them as Tarquin silently battled with himself one last time. Finally, when Feyre’s magic began to shake the pillars on the veranda, he said, “Aracely is pregnant.”

Feyre’s eyes went wide and her magic blinked out. Her mouth dropped open into a small ‘o.’ “She’s . . . she’s what?”

“Pregnant,” Tarquin said through gritted teeth. “The Court of the Book will have an heir. We wanted to keep it to ourselves for a while, but forgive me for not knowing that I was required to report such information!”

Feyre’s freckled face was quickly turning red. “I . . . I am so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“With that daemati magic of yours, I might have expected you to guess.”

“I don’t enter friends’ minds.”

“Well, you certainly like entering their business, don’t you?” Tarquin shook his head and sighed, looking away from Feyre and back out over the ocean.

“I didn’t smell it on her,” Feyre said softly from behind him.

“She’s not your wife, is she?” Tarquin said. “Did anyone smell it on you right away before Madoc was born?” He looked back at her, his gaze piercing.

She flinched at the reminder of her five-year-old son. “No. Only Rhysand.”

Tarquin nodded, his lips pursed tight.

“Well . . . congratulations,” Feyre said. “I’ll just . . . show myself out.”

Tarquin rolled his eyes out of Feyre’s sight. This was painfully awkward. “Allow me to escort you,” he said with a disgruntled, though not entirely unpleasant, tone.

Feyre’s head lifted just a bit and she gave him a soft smile. He extended his arm to her and she took it. “I’m sorry for being a busybody,” she said.

“You were worried about your friend. I understand. And I am glad she has you looking out for her well-being, too.”

“Madoc will have someone near his own age to play with,” she remarked. “He can’t quite keep up with his older cousins yet.” Her eyes glinted. “Maybe even . . .”

“Don’t you dare,” Tarquin said, casting her a glare. She giggled, waving off the comment as though she’d been joking, but with Feyre and her notorious matchmaking . . . it might not have been. The last thing he wanted to think about was his offspring in a relationship. Not when he hadn’t even met them himself, yet!

They approached the seashell-strung gates of Tarquin’s home, the aesthetic remaining despite the great changes in Prythian. Feyre made to bid him goodbye, but Tarquin held up his hand. “This is very private, Feyre. Please do not say anything.”

“I won’t,” she assured him. “I’ll leave it to the two of you to decide. Though . . . Rhysand will likely find out by virtue of being my mate.”

Tarquin sighed, though he agreed it was inevitable. “I’m less worried about Rhysand keeping a secret than I am you,” he said, slight teasing in his tone.

Feyre grinned sheepishly. “Your secret is safe with me, Tarquin.” She stepped across the threshold and prepared to winnow home. But before she entirely disappeared, she called out, “If it’s a girl, will you name her after me?”

She vanished before Tarquin let out a massive, irritated groan.