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mathiwrites · 1 month

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For the second prompt of Day 4 of @tamlinweek, please enjoy the small moments of Happily Ever After in Tamlin's life.

There is also a direct correlation between Tamlin's happiness and him being an idiot with his best friends. (Lookin' @ u Cassian)

Read Happy Endings on AO3 or below the cut:

The thing about ‘happily ever after’ is that is that it begs the question—after what? Happiness, in Tamlin’s opinion, is not an end. It is constantly in motion, and cyclical. It is intangible; no matter how hard he tries, he cannot capture it. Although, he has figured it out.

Happiness is not a state of mind.

Happiness lives within others.

CASSIAN

“You broke my nose, you fuck!”

Tamlin grins, a little too smug. The rules of their sparring is simple: don’t kill each other. Everything else is fair game, but Tamlin has never bothered with weapons. Not when he can shape himself into whatever he dreams of, and Nature has provided him with all the tools he needs to achieve his ends.

Today, he just wants to even the score.

“I owed you one. More than one, actually.”

Cassian makes an incoherent sound of frustration, setting the bone back in place without a complaint. “What else was I supposed to do with a big ass Spring Court invader in our war camps?”

“Rhysand invited me,” Tamlin deadpans. He’s pretty sure Cassian headbutt him all those years ago (and broke his nose) to prove a point. To think, everyone thinks Tamlin is the brute.

“Whatever, I’m not sorry.”

“Actually,” Morrigan chimes in. “May I propose literally any other way of greeting each other? Have you considered ‘hello’? I hear it’s all the rage with all other sane beings in this world.”

Both Tamlin and Cassian look at one another, they grin, two idiotic peas in a pod, before looking back at her and responding in perfect synchonicity: “Nah.”

Morrigan sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose with manicured nails. “There’s two of them. Two of them!”

As if to prove her point, Cassian turns and headbutts Tamlin in the face.

“Ack! My nose! Now we’re even.”

“No, that makes us uneven. Learn to count, you fuck!”

ELERI

The pitter-patter of light feet captures his attention. He’s curled on the lounge chair, reading one of Rhysand’s books. It’s a human fairytale that Eleri had mentioned, something about prince charmings and damsels in distress. Absent-mindedly, Tamlin twirls the ring on his finger made of Illyrian steel. It belonged to the Lady of the Night, passed down to him as Rhysand’s chosen-mate.

The pitter-patter continues, and Rhysand’s little sister pops up behind the back of the chair, regarding him with her big violet eyes. She flutters her lashes and smiles at him. “Hi, Tamlin.”

“Hello, Eleri.” He shuts the book carefully and raises a brow at her. She wants something, but with her, he can never guess what it is.

She rests her chin in her palms, admiring him. It’s strange to call her little. Yes, she is very small in stature, taking after her mother, but she is technically older than Tamlin. Most of his newfound family is.

“What?”

“I need your help.”

Without question, Tamlin gets up. “Lead the way.”

There isn’t anything Tamlin wouldn’t do for her. He’s saved her life once, and he would do it again without second thought. He doesn’t bother questioning her; the bounce in her step means that whatever she needs help with will be entertaining at the very least.

Together, they find Azriel in the House of Wind’s study, looking through the High Lord’s papers. The shadowsinger raises a brow in Tamlin’s direction, but Tamlin has only a shrug to offer him.

“Tamlin, please lift me,” Eleri demands once she plants herself before Azriel, extending her arms to give Tamlin room.

He tucks his hands beneath her armpits and raises her to eye-level to Azriel. What he witnesses is the single most hilarious berating he has ever heard in his life. Tamlin bites his lip to stifle his laughter. Apparently, she’s upset that Cassian caught wind of their date, and he keeps making kissy faces at her. Now, Rhysand is doing it too! She wasn’t the one who told them! What kind of spymaster can’t keep secrets?

Tamlin clears his throat.

“Um, we saw you both in the pastry shop. We were all having ice cream.”

The young Lady’s face burns a bright red. “I—! Mother above, Az, I’m so sorry!”

Tamlin’s laughter is a rumble as he hands the very short, very embarassed High Faerie to Azriel. “You’re very cute together. By the way, why did you need me for… this?” His voice trembles with amusement and guarded laughter. He doens’t want her to feel bad.

“The others are nosy, I trust you,” she says over her shoulder, feet dangling while Azriel holds her like a live bomb. To her crush, she yowls. “Hug me already!”

Oh, this family is ridiculous, but he loves them dearly. Most of all, Tamlin loves being a part of it.

MOTHER

“Mmmver, yr sqshng me.”

Tamlin wouldn’t trade it for the world. His face is smothered in her arms, a nice change of pace from her squishing his cheeks and crying at him.

“My baby! My little baby is getting married,” she says for the hundredth time.

He had made a point to tell her before the rest of his family. Before his father, he cannot be happy, and she cannot be free, so he tells her in the middle of her garden and her flowers that will live forever. This moment will live forever with them.

He had made a point to tell her months ago, but her mind never recovered from the loss of her second son. It’s alright, he thinks, if she can relive this happiness over and over again. He’s proud that he can be the one to make her smile like that again.

“I grew him a valley of eternal flowers, too, as my proposal.”

“Oh! You did! That’s so lovely, my sprout.”

This time he hugs her, nuzzling her hair and breathing in the scent of her yellow roses.

LUCIEN

Music is a language spoken through the heart, and the body. It speaks only of truths—harsh ones, sweet ones and the ones that they try to keep secret.

Music from Andras is a massacre. His voice has not improved over the years, sounding more and more like an offended cat every day. Tamlin tries to strum louder, or provide a healing rhythm for their ears while Lucien stokes the fire. Its crackling soothes, a baseline for whenever the singing comes to a lull.

“Why don’t you ever sing, Luce? Do you play an instrument?”

“Has anyone lived to tell the tale of a siren’s song?”

Andras looks unimpressed. “You’re telling me your singing is that good?”

Tamlin snorts. “Idiot.”

The clearing by the forest holds memories of pain and desperation, of many attempts to lure Tamlin out of his anger. Together, they have reclaimed this space. Here is a place where happiness lives.

ANDRAS

“It’s happening!”

The door to Tamlin’s map room slams against the wall as its virtually punched open. Lucien startles beside him, far too deep in his strategizing, not having hear the silver storm barreling down the hallway.

“Already? Time flies,” Tamlin hums getting to his feet. Today, he promised he will be picture perfect calm.

“Wait, what’s happening?” Lucien blinks, giving his tired brain a moment to shift gears. He jumps up with a gasp. “It’s happening.” He turns to Tamlin, grabbing him by the shirt to shake him. “It’s happening!”

“Yes, remember the plan? Cool, calm and collected?”

Lucien clears his throat. “Yes, yes, very calm. Bastion of support for the new parents.”

Despite this, the three of them winnow to Andras’ home and within seconds they are by Ailsa’s side. They crowd the healer who jabs at them with her carved wooden cane.

“Really, An? You couldn’t go a day without tweedle-dee and tweedle-dumb.” Ailsa teases and tosses her head back against the headboard, her brow lined with sweat and hair sticking to her forehead.

“Watch it, I can still claim your child as this year’s Tithe,” Tamlin teases. The glare she shoots at him can tear down mountains, and he recieves another jab for stressing out a mother in labor. “Sorry, sorry!”

“What happened to cool, calm and collected?” Lucien hisses.

“It was too easy.”

On one side, Andras holds his wife’s hand and caresses her head, soothing her however he can. Lucien takes her other hand, bearing through the crushing squeeze. Ailsa is more than Andras’ wife; she’s a member of their little group, except her tolerance for their nonsense is much lower than her husband’s. Andras’ also worries that the more she sees the side of him when he’s with his friends, the more she’ll reconsider her choice in partners.

Tamlin helps the healer, acting not as the High Lord, but as the only student of the greatest healer the Spring Court has ever seen. “Do you still have the potentillas petals I gave you?”

“Yes, my lord. I have kept them safe for when you need them.”

The flowers are rare, and he’s unsurprised to hear that the healer has not used them yet. “Now would be a good time.” He says calmly, and takes them to brew Ailsa a cup to soothe her pain.

The birth of a child is not easy, and Tamlin remains at Ailsa’s beck and call. It takes hours, and none of them sleep.

When the cries of a baby rings out through the burrow, relief washes over all of them. They each get a turn holding her, after the parents, of course, and when Tamlin finally gets his hands on that bundle of joy, he cannot help the tears that escape him.

“It’s a baby, a baby,” he says to none—he says to everyone. “I love her.”

“You realize you have to give her back at some point, right?” Ailsa reminds him.

“Oh, Cauldron, he’s never going to leave, is he?” Andras sighs, but the smile on his face never fades.

RHYSAND

There is no word for Rhysand.

He is just Rhysand.

No memory,

No gesture,

No titles,

No one thing that can qualify the what he means to Tamlin.

The things that he has done for a boy in need, for an enemy in the wrong place, defy anything as simple as happiness, as vague as perfection.

He is the home that Tamlin returns to, the understanding that he needs.

He is the gentle touch that soothes a vicious, wounded animal—a quiet that brings peace to a storming mind.

He is the bar against which everything is measured.

Would the Mother sacrifice her soul for him? Would she abandon her morals in the name of protecting him? Would the Cauldron grant his every wish? Would it defy its own laws if only to comfort him?

No, they would do none of those things.

There is no word for Rhysand.

He is just Rhysand.

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