Work Text:
Tamlin watched the gathering from the edge of the great hall. Inside, the formal Spring Court event continued. Outside, where his gaze lingered, a different scene played out in the gardens.
Dalven was currently attempting to climb one of the decorative statues, his moving up the moss-covered stone with unexpected delicacy for someone so large. "Think I can reach the top without magic?" he called, already halfway up.
Meara snorted, examining her mud-stained slippers with dismay. "Ten gold pieces says you fall on your ass before you make it halfway." She flicked a pebble at him, then immediately smoothed her emerald dress as though remembering she was supposed to be a proper courtier tonight.
Thorrin leaned against a nearby tree, methodically picking under his nails with a small blade. "If either of you break something… again… I'm not healing it this time." The corner of his mouth twitched. "I'll just stand there and say 'I told you so' while Tamlin deals with explaining to the dignitary from the Summer Court why his representatives are climbing garden ornaments."
These were his true companions.
"Your face is doing that brooding thing again," Lucien said, materializing beside him. His mechanical eye clicked softly as it focused, the sound almost masked by the music from inside.
Tamlin's fingers dug into the doorframe. "I should be attending to the guests."
"You mean Feyre." Lucien drummed his fingers against his thigh, a habit he'd picked up from Tamlin centuries ago. "She's trapped by that Summer Court ambassador, the one with the seaweed beard. Been nodding politely for twenty minutes while he explains tide patterns."
Across the room, Feyre's knuckles had gone white around her glass. She kept glancing toward the doors like a cornered animal.
Tamlin's stomach twisted. Another failure. He should be helping her navigate this world, not hiding at the edges.
"I'll rescue her," he said, pushing himself away from the wall.
Lucien caught his sleeve. "Before you go—" His voice dropped. "Thorrin caught something strange at the western border. It might be Hybern." His russet eye darted around the room. "We should talk. Later."
Later that night, Tamlin found his friends in the private gardens. They lounged around a fire, formal clothing abandoned for something more comfortable.
"There he is!" Meara had sprawled across a stone bench, boots discarded, feet propped on Dalven's knee. "We had a bet going on whether you'd escaped or been cornered by Lady Persimmon again." She mimed excessive chattering with her hand, then gulped from a ceramic cup that definitely didn't contain wine from the official celebration.
"A bit of both," Tamlin said, catching the flask Thorrin tossed his way without looking up. The liquid burned his throat, nothing like the watered-down courtly drinks.
"What's this about the western border?" He dropped onto the ground beside them, mud smearing his formal pants.
"Always straight to business." Dalven tipped his head back dramatically, exposing the second scar that ran along his jaw. "Remember when he used to drink us all under the table before Beltane? Before all this High Lord nonsense?"
"I remember him telling Rhysand exactly where he could stick his opinions about proper court protocol." Thorrin's eyes crinkled at the corners as he stared into the fire. "Night Court bastard choked on his wine so hard it came out his nose."
Dalven barked a laugh. "And then you just stood there, staring him down while he coughed."
The tightness in Tamlin's shoulders loosened incrementally.
"The border," he said again, but without heat.
Thorrin stopped tossing his knife from hand to hand. "Somethings not right. Hybern's forces might be making a move." He hesitated, something Thorrin never did. "Magic's different there, scouts report the barriers feel... wrong. Like they're being tested from the outside."
"You're hovering over her." Meara sat up abruptly, spilling her drink. She didn't bother cleaning it. "Feyre. You watch her like she's about to shatter or run."
His jaw clenched. "I'm keeping her safe."
"Are you?" Dalven asked, studying the calluses on his palms. "You pace outside her studio. You send guards to follow her. You've restricted her movements to the manor grounds." He looked up, uncharacteristically serious. "How did you feel when Amarantha locked you in that cell beneath the mountain?"
Tamlin's claws slid out before he could stop them. The metal flask crumpled in his grip.
"Not the same," he muttered, but the lie tasted sour.
"You hate being caged," Thorrin said quietly. The firelight cast shadows across the tattoos that marked his forearms, protection sigils he'd gotten after the mountain. "We all saw what it did to you. Under the mountain."
"I can't lose her." The words scraped his throat raw. His claws dug crescents into his palms, drawing blood that dripped unnoticed into the grass.
"Then stop giving her reasons to leave," Meara said, suddenly at his side. She pried the ruined flask from his fingers. "Remember the male you were before that red-haired bitch got her claws in you."
"The world changed," Tamlin said, staring at the blood on his hands as Meara covered them with her own and began to heal them.
"Did it?" Thorrin asked. "Or are you just seeing threats in every shadow now?"
The conversation shifted as the night wore on, but their words lodged beneath his skin like thorns.
When rumors of Hybern's renewed efforts began spreading weeks later, these same friends were the first to reorganize defenses. None of them anticipated how quickly it would all unravel.
Tamlin walked the cracked marble halls of his manor. Six months had passed since Hybern's attack. Six months since everything fell apart.
He stepped over a fallen column, remembering how Dalven had in the thick of battle. They'd found him beneath a pile of Hybern soldiers, his hands still clenched around an enemy's throat. Meara had vanished during an evacuation—the village she'd been protecting now was just ash and bone. Thorrin had lasted longest, fighting until a poisoned blade found its way between his ribs. He'd apparently died cursing Tamlin for not being there.
And Lucien, his best and oldest friend, had followed his mate to the Night Court.
Tamlin paused at a shattered window, his claws scraping against the sill, adding new grooves to old ones. Outside, the once vibrant gardens had withered to brittle stalks as if the soil itself seemed to have given up.
He entered what had once been the grand dining hall, his boot crunching on broken glass. This table had hosted a hundred celebrations. He'd sat here with his friends, arguing over battle strategy and court gossip. He'd watched Feyre from the head of this table, tracking each small victory as she slowly learned to navigate his world.
Now his footsteps echoed in the emptiness, each sound a reminder that no one would answer.
They'd offered to die for him once, to break Amarantha's curse. He'd refused then. Now they were gone anyway, their sacrifices meaningless. The Spring Court lay in ruins and it's High Lord a hollow mirror of what he once was.
Rain leaked through holes in the once magnificent roo. Water plastered his hair to his face, mixing with something that might have been tears if he'd remembered how to cry as he walked to the crumbling balcony. Below, the grounds stretched empty in all directions. His fists clenched against the \railing until it cracked beneath his grip. Somewhere, Feyre was living her new life with Rhysand. With Lucien. Somewhere, life continued.
But not here. Not for him.
Here, there was only the silence of an abandoned court and mud filled graves whose names no one else would speak aloud.