#tamquin

It was not theatricality—Tamlin did not possess the restless brilliance of Day nor the terrifying magnetism of Night—but rather something quieter and older, something like the gravity of a forest that had grown for centuries without asking permission from anyone at all, something that caused conversation to soften as he passed and attention to incline toward him not out of fear, nor even reverence, but because he seemed to belong to a deeper rhythm than the one governing the music and wine and polite deception of courtly gatherings.

Tarquin watched him from behind a carved pillar wound with flowering jasmine, telling himself that he observed only out of curiosity, out of political instinct, out of the entirely sensible desire to study a High Lord whose court bordered territories that would inevitably shape Summer’s future; but the truth—though he would not admit it even to himself until many decades later—was that he watched because Tamlin carried loneliness like a visible crown, and Tarquin had never before seen someone wear solitude so openly and yet so carefully concealed.

Tamlin did not notice him that evening.

Or at least Tarquin believed he did not.

Tamlin moved through the masquerade with the grave courtesy of someone fulfilling obligations that mattered deeply even as they exhausted him, his laughter rare but genuine when it came, his silences longer than those of the others, as though he listened always for something beneath the music that no one else could hear.

Tarquin went home convinced that he would never speak to him.

He was wrong.

—

Their second meeting took place not among lanterns and perfumes but across a long cedar council table polished so thoroughly that it reflected every flicker of torchlight like trapped amber fire, and Tarquin remembered with painful clarity the moment Tamlin entered the chamber—not because his arrival disrupted proceedings, for he slipped into the room with the unobtrusive grace of someone accustomed to entering places already filled with argument, but because his gaze moved once across the assembled delegates and then returned, unmistakably, to Tarquin himself.

“You attended the Summer masquerade,” Tamlin said later, during a pause in negotiations that had become so technical that even the most stubborn emissaries had surrendered temporarily to fatigue.

Tarquin had not expected recognition, and the surprise of it left him briefly unguarded.

“I did,” he replied, attempting composure and failing slightly. “I assumed you had more pressing matters to observe than minor cousins of the Summer Court.”

Tamlin regarded him with that same attentive stillness Tarquin remembered from the masquerade, as though he weighed not only the words spoken but the intention behind them.

“I notice more than people expect,” he said, and though the sentence was simple it carried with it the faintest echo of something older and sharper than observation alone—something like vigilance born of long habit rather than preference.

That was the beginning.

—

During the fifty years that followed, when the world narrowed beneath Amarantha’s dominion and hope itself seemed to retreat from Prythian like a wounded animal seeking somewhere dark enough to hide its breathing, their acquaintance deepened with the strange patience that only long-lived creatures could sustain, transforming gradually from distant recognition into something steadier and more deliberate, something neither courtier nor spy would have named friendship yet which nevertheless behaved like it in every way that mattered.

Tamlin spoke less during those years.

Silence gathered around him not as absence but as architecture, something built deliberately and maintained carefully, something that protected him from questions he could not answer and promises he could not afford to make. He listened instead—to negotiations that could accomplish nothing, to arguments whose conclusions had already been dictated elsewhere, to Tarquin’s voice describing trade innovations and irrigation experiments and shipping routes that might one day matter again when the world remembered how to breathe without fear.

“You speak as though there will be a later,” Tamlin said once, when the others had withdrawn and only the scent of extinguished candles remained in the chamber.

“There will be,” Tarquin replied, not because he believed it with certainty but because he believed that someone must say it aloud if the possibility were to survive at all.

Tamlin studied him for a long moment, and Tarquin sensed—not for the first time—that he was being measured against something invisible and severe.

“Hope,” Tamlin said at last, very quietly, “is expensive.”

Tarquin did not smile brightly then, nor foolishly, nor with the careless optimism of youth untested by loss; instead he answered with the stubborn steadiness that had already begun to shape him into something more than a neglected cousin of Summer.

“Then I will learn how to afford it.”

Something shifted between them after that—not dramatically, not visibly, but with the slow inevitability of roots pushing deeper into soil that had once seemed too stony to support them.

—

After Under the Mountain, when Tamlin returned to Spring carrying silence that no longer resembled restraint so much as survival, Tarquin did not ask him questions he knew would wound more than they would heal; instead he sent an invitation written in his own careful hand and sealed with saltwater magic that smelled faintly of tide-foam and sun-warmed coral.

Come swimming, it said.

Tamlin arrived three days later without escort and without announcement, stepping from the tree-shadowed edge of Summer’s coastline as though he had always known precisely where Tarquin would be waiting, and for a long moment neither of them spoke because the sea itself seemed to require acknowledgment before conversation could begin, its surface glittering with late afternoon light that turned every ripple into liquid glass.

Tarquin shifted first, allowing scales to bloom along his skin like reflections of the ocean itself, his transformation as natural to him as breathing; Tamlin followed more slowly, his shape dissolving into something river-sleek and forest-born at once, antlers vanishing into smooth lines of muscle designed for water rather than earth.

They swam without speaking until the sun lowered itself toward the horizon and the sky began its long descent into violet and rose, and only then did Tarquin realize that the tension he had carried since Under the Mountain—tension he had not admitted even to himself—had finally loosened its grip.

“You should come again,” he said as they returned to shore.

Tamlin did not answer immediately, but when he did his voice carried something almost like relief.

“I will.”

—

After that, their meetings became part of the quiet structure underlying courtly life, something unrecorded in treaties yet present in every decision that mattered: shared walks through Spring’s forests where new leaves whispered overhead like tentative promises returning after long exile, long swims beneath Summer’s moonlit tides where conversation drifted as slowly as the currents themselves, and evenings spent arguing—sometimes fiercely, sometimes gently—about music, governance, and the strange responsibility of believing in futures that had not yet learned how to exist.

Tamlin remained cautious with hope.

Tarquin remained devoted to it.

Between them, something rare and enduring grew—not the distant admiration of a young courtier watching a High Lord from across a lanternlit hall, but the steadier companionship of two rulers who understood that courts survived not only through power or lineage but through alliances forged quietly between those willing to remind one another, again and again and again, that even after darkness had ruled for half a century the world could still be persuaded, with sufficient patience and stubbornness and loyalty, to begin growing toward the light once more.

. . .

He was trying to keep the evidence of his arousal under control, but it was so hard with Tamlin’s hands on him, with the way he spoke—so self-assured, making him feel wanted, safe.

Of course he had explored his beast form. But he didn't dare to admit how much he enjoyed touching himself while transformed, how sometimes he would shift only partially, just enough to tease his slit until—

Tamlin inhaled deeply. His fingers tightened at Tarquin's chin.

The High Lord of the Summer Court licked his lips, nervous.

“I like touching myself in my beast form. It’s more sensitive. It… feels different.”

“Show me.”

Tarquin hummed, tying his hair into a ponytail, pulling it back. He hummed slightly. It was his first time going to a High Lord Meeting since he'd brought Tamlin to the Summer Court.

"Quin!" Tamlin stepped inside and pressed a kiss to Tarquin's cheek. "What's wrong?" he asked, glancing at Tarquin's troubled look and lack of clothes.

"Not sure about what I should wear." Tarquin explained. "I want it to represent our courts joined together."

"Oh," Tamlin smirked. "You flirt."

"Shush, it's a sign of our alliance."

"Ah, alliance." Tamlin winked. "You'll need green," he added. "Color of Spring and all that. That or Spring Flowers on a blue outfit." he mused.

"Hmm." Tarquin tilted his head. "How about I just wear something of yours?"

Tamlin snorted. "Half my shit is yours anyway." He said with a smile. "You're lucky any of my stuff from Spring survived."

"Yeah, but they're green, aren't they?"

"In the Summer style."

"What a perfect union." Tarquin laughed and pressed a kiss to the corner of Tamlin's lips.

"We should ask Cressida." Tamlin commented, walking to the door.

"Noooo, she'll just judge me!" Tarquin whined. Tamlin just shook his head affectionately.

"Surprise me with your final look," he said with a wink.

Tarquin screamed into his hands. Useless fucking boyfriend.

When he and Cressida finally chose an outfit, a blue tunic top with roses sewn into the collar, he stepped out and winnowed to the meeting place to await Tamlin's arrival.

"What a… unique outfit." Feyre commented when he entered.

Tarquin reached up and readjusted his crown to stop himself from flipping her off. Instead he turned to face the door, pursing his lips.

Tamlin stepped in a minute later. He wore a traditional Spring outfit, but there was a necklace, a gift from Cressida, an heirloom of Summer, hung around his neck. His crown glinted in the light and he moved to his seat, conveniently next to Summer. Because duh.

"Tamlin." said Rhysand coldly, eyes moving over the man's form, over the exposed tanned skin, from days of being on the beach with the people.

"High Lord of Night." Talin nodded, eyes cold, emotions locked away where even Feyre and Rhysand combined couldn't reach.

Tarquin reached under the table and grasped his hand in comfort, keeping him calm.

"Where did you get that necklace from?" Feyre asked, eyebrow raised in annoyance, clearly annoyed that he had anything of value.

"From Summer. It was a gift." Tamlin smiled and ran a finger over the edge. "Quite a lovely heirloom."

"It is." Feyre seemed satisfied there was nothing of value in Spring.

Rhysand, however, clearly knew what the gift was.

"Congragulations." said the Lady of Autumn, her eyes warm.

"Ah, thank you my lady. Cressida gifted it to me." The implications were clear. It was a gem given to a courting partner by their family to show approval of the choice.

Tamlin/Tarquin rebuilding their courts and bonding over being fucked over by Feyre.

Tamlin/King of Hybern NOW HEAR ME OUT LISTEN I saw someone refering Tamlin/Rhysand as a crackship and immediately thought 'that's dreaming small I'll show you a crackship'. Idk I can latch onto the tiniest bit of potential for a nasty man offering you fake comfort when you're too low to disregard that and I'm running with it.