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@volchtsa : ‘ sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt, you just looked sad. ’ — amren

sad seems to be an understatement, with the high lord being multiple drinks in — alone, surrounded by a mist of shadows, eyes burning a hole into the paperwork that was neglected hours ago. it's become a nightly routine since returning from under the mountain, wrapping up his days of hunting rogue illyrian war bands with anything to take the edge off. they were gruesome confrontations over the fifty years they'd decided to push boundaries, that ended with blood being spilled more often than not. a waste of life, especially when they'd need as many bodies as they could round up for the festering war. what he'd thought would be a decent enough distraction from the upcoming wedding, ended up only adding onto his stress.

her words pull him from his thoughts, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. after so many years, isolating himself to deal with his problems on his own had become second nature — but in moments like this, he is reminded of what it is to have a friend again. his family. he straightens, waving a hand. " no need to apologize. don't tell me you've gone soft in my absence. " a glass appears before them, a gift from the house for amren, filled with blood. " i was just lost in thought, i suppose. "

a smile darts across his features, solemn & fleeting, disappearing as soon as amren presses further. with all that is going on, a war no doubt on it's way — rhysand's concern should be focused elsewhere. he feels ashamed to admit that his mind has been consumed by the bond, the news he'd heard through it, the joy that his mate had felt upon a proposal. feyre's thoughts were too loud to drown out sometimes, no matter how much he wished to tune it out. it was a bitter reminder of what he'll never have.

rhysand's fingers drum against the glass of amber, eyes dropping as he takes a breath. " she is going to marry him. " his tone is quiet, broken, lacking the confidence of a high lord. during the past few weeks of feyre's return to the spring court, he was hoping that tamlin's treatment of her was just ... a transitional period, that he'd notice the lifeless shell she had become. step in & do something. yet day by day, she continues to wither away, all while he just watches.

" if she were happy — truly happy. i could bear it. " but her nightmares that keep him awake at night, the way she empties out her stomach while tamlin sleeps soundly, tells him all he needs to know. " but she's wasting away there, while they all pretend to not notice ... am i just supposed to do the same? "

amren leans against a doorway, the look on her face vague and impenetrable. it's been weeks since rhysand has returned from under the mountain. he did not need words for the rest of them to understand that he was not having the best time. whatever happened to him under amarantha's thumb... rage rises inside her, fast and steady, poised to strike like a snake. but the object of her ire is long dead. it's a pity, really, that it wasn't amren who killed her.

“ soft? ” she scoffs, taking the seat he offered her and crossing one leg over the other. in the dark, she surveys rhysand with her swirling silver gaze. the tired cast of his face is answer enough to amren's unasked question. “ i remain as sharp as ever, boy. ” she leans forward, takes the glass of blood he so kindly conjured for her and takes a generous sip, tongue darting out to lick her lips clean. “ i can't sleep, and you're out here brooding so i'm surmising you can't either. ” it's partly true, but amren won't deny that she is worried about rhysand as well. as his second, she feels it is part of her charge to ensure his wellbeing from time to time. she hasn't been able to perform that duty in 49 years.

“ out with it, then. ” amren leans back in her seat, braces one elbow against the back of her chair. “ what is on your mind, high lord? ”

the fire in her words is expected, rhysand unflinching with the fervor packed outburst. they've gone through the same song & dance countless of times now, ever since feyre issued her ultimatum. he knew nesta wouldn't be eager to go along with it, but she was wasting away, pushing away everyone who cared about her. someone had to step in. " i hate to be the bearer of bad news, but for as long as you live our court, burning through our gold marks, like it or not, you do. feyre has given you enough patience. " if he didn't witness firsthand how this was effecting his mate, rhysand thinks he might be able to extend that same amount of patience. he knows what she's going through, being forced to live a life you didn't want, the self hatred that seems to burn you alive ... maybe, if they didn't have such similarities, they wouldn't always be at odds like this.

" i'm well aware it won't work. " his voice is bald, shoulders shrugging. " you would have to actually want to change — to get better, and clearly you are more than fine wasting your days away in this miserable existence. " he had his own moments of shutting everyone out when he returned from under the mountain, uncertain of where the mask he had to wear for so long ended & he really began. but his family pushed him to get through it, helped him see the world in color again. even if he sometimes finds him lost in that facade, slipping into those same habits, constantly questioning his own morals. every day slowly gets easier. she deserves at least a chance for the same. " i implore you to at least try, if not for yourself, then for the people that care about you. "

@rhysie: do you mean to spend your whole life running away?

prompt vault. * always accepting !

“ what do you care? ” she snaps, words cold and hard as ice. nesta is sick of this meddling, this intervention they're trying to stage for her. he's not doing it because he cares ( she's not a fool to expect that from him ). he's doing it for feyre, and for the inconvenience of her existence in this blasted court. it's not like she asked to be here. “ what i do or don't do with my life is none of your business. i don't answer to you. ” nesta knows that's not entirely true. she lives in velaris. just a few months ago she'd agreed to work with him, to be an emissary of the night court to the human lands. but that was before elain was taken away due to her lackluster attempt at scrying. before the war with hybern, before cassian's broken body on the grass, before her father's broken neck. things have changed since then. she might be under his jurisdiction but it doesn't mean she has to be happy or willing. “ it won't work, you know, ” nesta adds, every syllable dripping with malice. “ whatever the point is of you asking me to train with cassian. it won't work. ” she almost feels sorry for feyre, almost wants to beg for elain's forgiveness. but there are things she just can't allow herself to feel anymore ( and things she simply can't feel, no matter if she allows it. ) “ this is who i am, ” nesta tells rhysand in a flat, colorless voice. “ not even your damned cauldron managed to change that. ”