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fourteentrout · 4 days

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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 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 #not my fanfic #acotar #tamlin

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