Chair of Chaos

AO3 NOTES: Currently, the only place you can find all my fics is here on tumblr. I'm slowly cross-posting my things, but as of 9/19/24 through the end of the year, my Ao3 will be on full hiatus and all fics will be posted on this blog only via scheduled posts.

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Chapter 2

The door closing wasn’t enough. Tamlin opened a window. He took an unintentional step backwards, spilling his wine as he stumbled and swore. He had hoped that a new room would remove the addled lean of his wine-fogged thoughts, but that damned scent of pine followed him like it was etched into his skin. He wanted it gone but… maybe it was his clothes? He could change them.

Tamlin moved toward his dressing table, but froze when he saw his reflection in the mirror. He looked half-animal, his eyes still shifted to those of an owl, his first finger remaining in the falcon’s talon he had used to pop the cork of the second wine bottle he had opened and– curse the forgotten gods, the cauldron, and the mother. There, above his heart, the fabric of his shirt was wrinkled as if the hand that had clutched the fabric was permanently stamped into it. Nyx’s hand. Nyx. Pine. Oh, this was so cauldron fucked.

A knock on the door interrupted his piercing spiral, and he crossed with some urgency. Maybe it was– no. No, it wasn’t, because it was a messenger with a note. He accepted it, tearing it open as he shifted his eyes back without a second thought.

Dear Tamlin,

I appreciate the urgency with which you believe you wish to speak to me. However, as I am currently committed to such a great number of engagements, I believe I will not have the energy to speak with you in the time which remains in our visit here. I will find a time for you soon, I assure you. Perhaps a visit to Day in the near future would be possible? I’ll send you a list of dates once I’m back in residence.

Fondly,

Elain Vanserra

Tamlin growled. Lucien may be his friend, but Elain Vanserra certainly was not. Much like her sister, she seemed to gain pleasure from stirring others pots and then leaving them to burn. He summoned a piece of paper and a pencil, shifted his hand back to its typical fae state and scrawled a response.

She needed to know how conflicted he was. She had been the one to put him in that scenario in the first place. How could he not seek answers from her? How could he not ask her why his hands, his shirt, his very being reeked of pine and something deeper, something which spoke to him. It wasn’t Nyx’s blood, but something so like it he stiffened with the realization. Nyx’s blood. It was as if it called to him. He had held the eldest Night child in his arms, and comforted him in his pain, yet it was the tiny drop of blood which undercut that addictive scent of pine.

It had happened at some point after Amarantha’s death. The very scent of others’ blood sent him into a spiral. Yet this was different. It was such a small amount, it shouldn’t have affected him this deeply, nor should it have followed him back to his rooms. Had Nyx been hurt beyond– Tamlin shook his head suddenly. No, he couldn’t have been, or Tamlin would have noticed. Wouldn’t he have? He rolled his shoulders with a sigh, winnowing the note directly to Elain. Hopefully she would answer him quickly. Hopefully she would answer him at all. She owed him that much, if not more.

Sighing, Tamlin tossed his pants over the back of the dressing table chair. He eyed the shirt which hung around him, his hands hovering over the top button before dropping to his sides. He couldn’t. He couldn’t take it off. Something deep in him protested at the very thought of unbuttoning even one button. His sigh was bone deep as he turned to drop onto the bed, a very unbecoming action. He hadn’t done that in ages, perhaps since he was Nyx’s age—

No. No, he could not think about Nyx for one second longer. He would sleep. Maybe when he woke, he would have a response from Elain. He would have answers. With one more sigh, Tamlin fell asleep, not noticing that the wrinkled fabric which covered his heart was now gripped in his fist.

*****

A startled cry woke Tamlin. Only seconds after he registered the pounding of his heart did he realize the cry had come from him. It was unsettling, to wake in a panic and not recall what had alarmed him in the first place. He hadn’t woken from a nightmare in almost 200 years. Still, he remembered the sleepless nights which followed, the call of the wind outside, and stood. Before he knew it, he was dressed and headed for the door.

A servant in the wide hallway started at the sight of him, ducking into an adjacent hallway to let Tamlin pass. Was his presence so unsettling that six feet between them wasn’t enough? Tamlin growled at the thought. The night air would help. The night soothed him, which was, of course, incredibly ironic, given that Rhysand and his father had been the source of a good many of Tamlin’s nightmares.

The candlelit stairway at the end of the hall let Tamlin exit to the gardens. Thesan did have excellent taste. Tamlin had supplied him with a few of Spring’s more unique varieties of plants, especially the cherry blossoms which bloomed along the coast. They would be blooming soon, he knew. Perhaps the smells of home would soothe him.

He wove his way through the hedges, letting their increasing heights crowd him in until he felt he had shrunk to walk beneath them. Very little was revealed under the new moon, and it had cast a hushed air over the entire area. For a good time, the only sound Tamlin heard was his own footfall, but as he drew closer to the arched entrance to the cherry grove, quiet laughter and voices filtered through the foliage.

“Do you think your father will actually agree to the treaty? He has a tendency to be contrarian, just out of spite,” a male with an Autumn accent drawled.

“You’d think he’d have grown out of it at this point,” another Autumn courtier quipped.

A female spoke, her voice nearly familiar behind the slight whisper of her words. “Do you ever think he just misses being feared? He dotes on you so much, is it possible he thinks he’s lost respect among the other High Lords just by–”

“No,” a familiar voice cut her off sharply. It was an unseemly quality to hear from Nyx, eerily reminiscent of a younger Rhys, but it was something else, some soothing quality that gave Tamlin pause. “Father wouldn’t do that.”

“It may not be conscious,” the female suggested, louder now. “It isn’t, always. I’ve been reading about trauma, some recent studies by mind healers–”

“Mind healers?” Nyx snorted. “Mind healers don’t have anything to teach us. You’re barely twenty, what do you know of mind healing anyways?”

“I’ll be ignoring the immature attack on my age, thank you, cousin.” Flora. Tamlin bit back a laugh, picturing her rolling her eyes the way she did with her Vanserra cousins. “Mind healers have a great deal to teach us. I think everyone could use a visit to a mind healer at some point in their lives. Nyx, you can’t dismiss the fact that living under a curse which directly or indirectly affects you for fifty years would change your way of thinking, of being! It has to leave a mark.”

“It left literal marks on some. Logically, metaphorical marks would follow for most who were Under the Mountain,” the Autumn male added, his voice tinged by an attempt at sage wisdom. The attempt fell short– incredibly so. Tamlin snorted this time, and a hush fell over their company.

“Who’s there?” A fourth male snapped. “Come out now before we drag you out.”

“You should know better than to eavesdrop,” the other Autumn male joined.

Tamlin growled, stepping through the archway. “And you should know better than to threaten a High Lord.”

“My lord,” they sputtered.

Their group made a pretty portrait, or it would have been had Tamlin not startled them all half out of their places. Only Flora remained unmoved, draped across a bench with her head resting in her wide-eyes companion’s lap. Their fingers intertwined by Flora’s head.

Nyx had frozen in his pacing, his face tempered in an unreadable expression. Between them, the two Autumn males scrambled to their feet to join the male who stood solemnly at the far end of the small sitting space.

“Indeed,” Tamlin sneered. “And best not to have conversations of a familial nature where it may be overheard by others.”

Flora sniffed. “Not all of us are granted the luxury of our own private sitting rooms, Uncle. Certainly not when we want to have freedom of our own thoughts.”

Tamlin turned abruptly toward his niece, considering her for a moment. The male’s hand jumped up toward his belt where, no doubt, a blade was hidden. Tamlin let his face soften into a small smile. “Indeed. Well, perhaps one could ask one’s High Lord for an appropriate meeting space, then, if these conversations must be had.”

Flora laughed. “Oh? And if you were my Lord and grandfather, would you grant us a room to have such a conversation without demanding to be a part of it? I think not.”

Tamlin laughed in return. “Alright, my dearest niece, I suppose you make a point. But do me a favor and don’t tell your grandfather I said so. He would accuse me of being too nosy for my own good.”

“As if he could make such an accusation and remain unscathed,” Flora sniffed with amusement. “But I sense you’re not interested in joining us tonight, are you, Uncle Tamlin?”

“No, I’m not,” Tamlin admitted, nodding at the trees. “I’m far more interested in seeing how my gifts to Thesan are doing.”

“These trees were your gifts?” Nyx interjected, curiosity lacing his voice.

Tamlin stiffened. Flora was such an easy distraction. He was very fond of her, enough that he did consider her a niece. She’d called him Uncle Tamlin for the last 22 years, and he hoped she would continue in the years to come. But his fondness had always been reserved for the privacy of his own home, or Lucien’s on his rare visits to Day. Never in front of Autumn citizens, let alone the heir of Night.

Flora peered at him. “Uncle Tamlin?”

“Yes, they were my gifts,” he said firmly. “If you’ll excuse me-”

“Uncle, Nyx was just discussing how lovely they are. Perhaps you could explain some of the varieties to him? He’s never had the chance to see cherry blossoms outside of my drawings, you see,” Flora smiled gently.

Nyx blanched, calm exterior shattering as he sputtered, “No, I-I wouldn’t ask that of you. I apologize for my cou-”

“I will,” Tamlin cut in. Now why the fuck had he done that? Offering a tour to someone you can’t stop thinking about is… well, unwise, at the least. Had Nyx at least had the foresight to see a healer? Tamlin’s quick transformation into sharper eyes revealed no sign of the wound from earlier, so he took a deep breath and let them regain human form.

Flora’s smile deepened to a smirk as she stood. “Well. We’ll leave you, then. Good night, Uncle. Cousin.” She curtsied to Nyx, then crossed to Tamlin. “Best of luck, Uncle,” she whispered, kissing him on the cheek. “Mother says hello.”

She reached back for her companion, grabbing her hand and running off with a giggle. Tamlin sighed as the Autumn males filtered out after them, clearly disappointed that the objects of their affection were departing so quickly. The male from Dawn had paused at Nyx’s side, and they whispered together profusely until he stepped back, shaking his head with a sigh before turning on his heel. He looked at Tamlin, then strode past quickly without another glance.

And then there were two, Tamlin thought grimly. “The trees?”

Nyx nodded, following silently as Tamlin led the way into the grove. He rambled a few moments about the three varieties he had given to Thesan, their medicinal benefits in treating physical and magical maladies, the light flavour they could lend to honey, and the beauty of the blooms at peak. Thesan largely used them for medicinal uses, he knew, but without knowing where Nyx’s interests lay, how could he know what Nyx would be interested in? All the while, Tamlin’s thoughts stayed with Nyx, his odd reaction to Tamlin’s acceptance of Flora’s request. Why would Nyx’s presence be both unsettling and soothing, all at once?

As they continued, Nyx remained attentive but silent. He gazed at Tamlin as if studying the words which came from his mouth. It was unsettling somehow. A gust of wind picked up, rushing past them like a sprite. It wafted Nyx’s scent towards Tamlin, and once more, he scented pine, this time mixed with the distinct scent of dried blood. Nyx’s blood. Oh mother. It had been Nyx’s blood, the pine scent, in the nightmare, the blood on Nyx’s lip in the wine cellar, there was a drop of blood on my shirt when I looked in the mirror this evening, the shirt with the crumpled fabric over my heart the shirt I am currently wearing. He stifled a gasp at the realization, clearing his throat.

Suddenly desperate for any change of topic, Tamlin stated, “There was a distinct lack of your Night courtiers in your company.”

“And?” Nyx snapped, brow furrowing suddenly.

Tamljn was so focused on silently releasing the sudden tension in his throat that he barely registered the other male crossing his arms. “You’d think the heir of Night would be accompanied by his own people. A sibling or cousin, at least, and yet they aren’t with you.”

“Flora was with me.”

“Yes, of course. Your cousin from another court,” Tamlin narrowed his eyes. “It is an observation. Does it have to mean something? I was simply curious.”

Nyx snapped, “What do you want, you insufferable male? You offer to tell me about these trees and then insult me. You are kind to Flora and yet when I speak to you, you have nothing but indignation and cold words.You question me, though you have no right to. You ridicule me, you tease me though we’ve just met. It’s no wonder you spend all your time alone. You probably can’t bear to be around other people, knowing all you say is cruel, and that which isn’t will just be judged later. You met me, and you hel–”

Tamlin snarled in return, that tightness in his throat spreading quickly to his shoulders, his stiff posture, his hands. “You consider this an insult? You’re just like your parents. You’re spoiled, arrogant. You’ve been raised to be like them, so perhaps it’s less your fault than it is your father’s. But for all your free thinking, you’re still unable to accept the differences of others.”

Nyx paled, biting his lip and storming off in the direction they had come from.

Tamlin’s anger faded with every step the heir took away from him. Well. That was that, then. If a simple inquiry was met with that sort of response, Tamlin may as well leave others to their own existence. Perhaps he was better off on his own. It had become easy to live this way. Well, maybe not easy. But familiar. Simpler, to live this way. He hardly spoke to anyone, only when necessary. The court all but ran itself. He left the people to their own devices, providing aid when requested and allowing others to rule on his behalf. It seemed better than what had been.

Was this all that was to be of him? He had been powerful, once, though it had never fulfilled him. Had ruled with a strong hand, only to be torn apart by the woman he thought had been his love, his mate. No mate had found him. It was not for him, then, to have love. To have the kind of contentment which settled the lives of those around him into a state of bliss, of peace. To feel tethered.

No, Tamlin was not destined for those things. The sense of wandering had never left him, not once. He was as unsettled in his own skin now as he had been before Feyre’s arrival; before the deaths of his sentries; before Amarantha’s curse. He was, it seemed, destined to wander, to roam.

Tamlin sighed, laying beneath the cherry trees. They smelled of home, distracting him from the pine scent which wrapped ever tighter around his person. Would his spirit never know peace? Tamlin had not known the depth of his mother’s faith in the divine until a few years ago, when a servant found him to reveal that her journals had been discovered, concealed in the wall of the home he had grown up in. He had pored over them for hours, learning the world through her eyes for what seemed like the first time. He had been his father’s son, raised at his side with his brothers. He discovered he had not known his mother, not in the way one really knows a person. He had known her only as a source of dim affection. He had idolized her in ways, reduced her to a shell of who she truly had been, but now she had come alive for him once more.

Perhaps her faith had been a comfort in her loneliness. Her diaries recalled the isolation she felt, the pain of living in a house that felt more like a tomb than a home, and the peace she felt upon entering the temple. He had tried to sit there, to pray, to honor her, and yet could not feel that peace. He had tried to seek that peace in the starlight pond, in the forest, in the river. He had not yet had luck. In stillness, the scent of pine hit him again, followed by a gust of cherry wind. He sighed, shaking his head.