The Shadows of Spring

ONE

Elain:

Standing across from the High Lord of Spring, I felt my knees tremble with exhaustion. I hadn't slept for days, not since my vision of the wall. The harder I fought to stay awake, the worse my body felt.

After a moment of silence, he said, "do what you will..."

He thought I was here to kill him. That I would drown him in shadows or stake him with Azriel's blade. "I'm in need of refuge," I replied with a shaky voice, a hollow sound in a void of darkness.

"Refuge?" This caught his attention, long enough for me to say something else.

What that was, I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure until the words leapt off my chapped lips. "I can hear it in your voice."

Tamlin shifted his weight, the rocks beneath him scratching against one another, "what?"

Searching for what I thought to be his eyes, the entrance to a soul that barely clung to its flesh, "the fragments of your dreams. What remains of them anyways."

He stayed silent; I wasn't sure if he were staring at me or had looked away but I knew he was still here. I could smell him. The scent of soil after a gentle rainfall and roses. Fresh cut roses. Tamlin's mouth parted, "you shouldn't be here. It isn't safe." He didn't sound like he used to. There was no tone of underlying frustration, no manner-lacking attitude. Definitely no sign of a High Lord's arrogance.

"No safer than the Night Court," I gently reminded him, digging my fingers into my silk gown seeking comfort in the soft fabric. I didn't know what to do with my hands—to make them stop trembling. I knew Nesta had symptoms like this, before I lost my sight, I saw her crumbling.

I guess it was my turn now; delayed with terrible timing of the impending doom. My vision of the wall wasn't the only thing that kept me up at night though. There, my first admitted truth to myself.

I was expecting more silence but instead his defeated voice echoed, "you should go." Turning on his heel, I heard him leave. Each step weighing more than the last.

"Is it because I look like her that you don't want me to stay?" Searching the nothingness of my vision, I imagined him stopping, peering over his shoulder. My words flanking him like a ton of jagged stones.

"No—for sisters you hardly look alike."

Taking a step forward, I dared to ask, "then why?" If it wasn't because of Feyre or Nesta or our father...then why?

A whisper, nothing more, "a beast must reside among the thorns—"

As a beauty must live among the petals, I finished his sentence in my head. Too worried he would think I possess even more powers than I truly have. Raising my voice so it would be clear enough for any other listening parties to hear, "I do not fear you."

Tamlin's silence was haunting, horrifying. This time I couldn't tell if he left me, winnowing away from my abrupt courage. Releasing a heavy sigh, I felt myself wobble. My legs finally done with their duties for the day; the darkness of my vision somehow intensifying.

The air grew thick with my grim thoughts. Breathing became increasingly difficult as I sunk to my knees, laying my hands down onto the smooth river rocks. Tears welled into my eyes, I didn't know where I was within his court despite my visions and I didn't have the energy to shadow-jump all the way back to the Night Court.

My virtue and heart had been given to Grayson yet his disgust of faes outweighed the love he had for me. I've lost my choice in whom I must walk this world with. No matter what Nesta or Feyre have said regarding choices—they still chose their mates in the end.

I've lost my sight, my father.

For what little good I have gained in this new world, it still didn't fill or fix what I had lost. Now on my hands and knees, I would resort to begging to stay here. To be close to the only home I knew.

"Here," Tamlin's frail voice was beside me, his hand gently touching my elbow. "Rest until morning. Then you must go." I nodded, my first lie to him. Helping me to my feet, he became my sight guide. Cautiously steering us back towards a windy garden path, "watch your step," Tamlin warned.

"If only I could see," I chimed with a small smile.

"I—I didn't mean..." Tamlin choked on his words. His embarrassment, though unnecessary, brought me some relief. As he assisted me in stepping over something that turned out to be half my body height, he mumbled, "I'm sorry."

Pausing on our journey, I tilted my head up towards him, "we might need to work on your sense of humor, Tamlin."

He cleared his throat, his voice barely audible, "we should keep moving."

On our way to the manor, I noticed a few things. His skin felt dry, rough with hardships unlike before. Tightly wrapping my hand around his bicep so he could guide me up the manor steps, I realized his arm felt emaciated—extremely so. Like all his muscles were eaten away until he was nothing but skin and bones. He must not be eating.

Then the wind picked up, flooding my senses with less than pleasant aromas unlike before. I felt his long golden hair rest against my shoulder, oily and thick—a trail of dirt left behind on my skin. Perhaps I was only smelling the garden earlier because he certainly wasn't bathing. Going over the little details since my arrival, I understood why his voice sounded so fragile.

The beast had finally broke. The pieces of him scattered throughout his court. The rubble that was left of it.

This is what's become of the Golden Prince.

Of Prythian's savior.