Chapter Text
Feyre didn’t know why she didn’t leave with Rhys, off to Thesan’s solar to discuss plans on how to better strengthen the relationship between Dawn and Night.
Perhaps she was just a little burnt out on politics. After today’s fraught discussion at the quarterly meetings of the Council of High Lords (and Ladies), Feyre just wanted to relax. And so she did, or tried to, socialising with the other Dignitaries of the Courts while sipping some sweet wine gifted to the meeting by Helion’s entourage.
Of course, that also meant she was stuck with him.
Tamlin.
He cleaned up nicely, Rhysand had noted through their bond, and she could hear the sneer in his tone.
Indeed, the past year had seen a marked change from the pathetic creature he had transformed into since the War — at least, that’s what she had been told. Blissfully, she had seen neither hide nor hair of the detestable man.
And now, she was forced to see him every turn of the season.
It wasn’t as bad as that first fraught meeting of the High Lords — then, it had been barely two weeks since she had left Spring — then, it had been nothing but scathing words and vile accusations.
Now, the worst of it was just that bloody reparations bill he had put forward two seasons ago, one co-signed by Tarquin, as if it were her fault Hybern had decided to scourge their lands. Still, that was then, and this was now, and Feyre was content to enjoy that hollow expression the High Lord of Spring wore whenever he made an appearance.
He was elsewhere at the moment — thank the Mother — occupying the drawing room of Thesan’s manse where he was entertaining Tarquin and Kallias and other dignitaries with his stupid little fiddle.
She could still hear him, of course, but it was easier to pretend he was just some nameless musician entertaining his betters.
And so she drank her wine, and he played, and they were all but a world away, content to ignore each other.
He played, and he played, and —
Feyre stilled.
A chill crawled up her spine.
That song.
Her song.
A flurry of thoughts, a storm of emotion.
Suddenly, she was back Under the Mountain —
Suddenly, she was with Rhys, hearing that song again after what seemed to be an eternity.
Beauty. Goodness. Colour. Light. The layered symphony struck, latching its claws into her flesh and dragging an aching, bitter-sweet bliss from deep within her heart. “Because you were breaking,” he had said. Her handsome and strong and powerful Rhysand. “And I couldn’t find another way to save you.”
And now, Tamlin was playing it.
Not some reduced cover, as it had been in Velaris —
No.
It was her song.
He was playing her song.
Her grip tightened around her glass, on the verge of shattering it.
‘Is everything alright — Feyre darling?’ It was Rhysand, calling to her down their bond.
Feyre shook her head, thankful she didn’t have to speak. ‘It’s fine. It’s just — it’s him.’
Rhysand understood immediately. What did he do? he asked, and she could feel that thrum of power down the bond.
‘Nothing,’ Feyre said, not quite sure what to say. ‘He’s just —
‘Tamlin.’ Rhys chuckled down the bond. ‘The offer’s still open.’
His head on a plate.
Feyre had laughed when he offered, but now she was considering it — genuinely.
‘Perhaps later,’ she replied. After I get some answers…
#
“Where did you learn those songs.” There was no preamble to her question, no pleasantries. Feyre had a question and Tamlin would answer her, or she would rip it from his head.
Tamlin stiffened at the sight of her, those eyes once warm some untold time ago, now frigid with distrust. She had seen no claws, yet, but she would sooner kill the brute than let him intimidate her again. “Does this have anything to do with either of our Courts?” he asked, and she wanted to slap him across the face.
“What does it matter?” Feyre replied, jaw setting stubbornly.
Tamlin glanced around the room, his expression guarded.
They were alone.
Everyone else was in the parlour or elsewhere, enjoying the wine and each other’s company.
Years ago, she would’ve dreaded this — being alone with him, but Feyre was the High Lady of the Night Court and he couldn’t hurt her.
Not anymore.
Still, it was odd to find Tamlin here, surrounded by paintings and sculptures, but Feyre didn’t care for his motivations.
Feyre wanted answers and she would get them, one way or another.
“Because, if it doesn’t, then there’s nothing more to say.” He turned to leave, then stiffened as Feyre latched on to his arm, all nails and simmering hate. “Please let go of me, High Lady of the Night Court.” His voice was tense and filled with an emotion she couldn’t quite place.
“We’re not done,” Feyre said, firmly.
Tamlin took a deep breath. “When I decided to attend these meetings, I made it a rule: Unless it is about Court business, I would not so much as speak to you or your mate, for all our benefit. Please respect this.”
“Respect?” She sneered, grip tightening. “You want to talk to me about respect?”
He breathed, long and laboured. “What do you want, Feyre?”
“I want to know where you learnt those songs — the ones you played earlier.”
There was a pause, long and as tense as the strings on his fiddle. Then, finally, he answered: “I wrote them.”
“Liar.”
He frowned, brow furrowing — another pause. “I’m not going to argue.”
Feyre could’ve accepted that. Part of her wanted to. Tamlin was a liar and a monster, and — and —
Her grip tightened. “Why did you play it — ? Why did you play that song?”
He didn’t even need to ask which song. He knew exactly what she was talking about — regret clear in his eyes, setting fire beneath her skin. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Another deep breath. “Kallias asked me to play it,” he said. “It was one of the few moments of peace while we were — ” His jaw clenched, dark memories flickering across his mind. “ — while we were Under the Mountain. He wanted to hear it again.”
She felt the truth resound in his mind. She could see it, too, as she peaked deeper into his mind, that memory of him and Kallias and Tarquin and all the rest mere moments ago. Kallias had asked for it. Requested it. Tarquin, too. And the others — others who were trapped Under the Mountain, just as she was.
“You played the song?” she asked, and then another memory appeared and, suddenly, Feyre felt very fragile, like a porcelain doll teetering upon the edge of a broken shelf. “You sent it to me?”
Tamlin’s voice was rough. “I couldn’t find another way to save you.”
She snatched her hand away, as if burned. “Liar! You’re — you’re lying or — or you’re delusional. Rhysand sent it to me. He said so himself!”
The ghost of an expression flickered across his face, and Feyre wanted to rip him limb from limb. “Then Rhysand sent it to you.”
Disgust roiled within her; words like bile bubbled in the back of her throat, and she wanted nothing more than to curse him to whatever abyss awaited for a beast like him. “If you sent it, why did you never mention it?”
“Would it have mattered?” he asked. “Would it have changed anything?”
Feyre had no answer. The only thought she had was: Liar.
“Exactly,” Tamlin said.
And then he left.