Hey, ya'll! My name is TurtleSteed and this is my first fanfiction. I really enjoyed writing this and I hope to continue with my writing as long as I enjoy it.

Please review, but also be kind and give me some constructive criticism.

The ACOTAR fandom is owned by the queen, S. J. Maas and I can only hope to ever be as excellent at writing as she is.

With that, please enjoy!

Rhysand loathed the color red. He hated the deep burgundy of the spiced wine drunk by the Queen's Court as she scowled over their heads. He hated the shimmering crimson that trimmed the outside of the rugs in front of her bronze throne. Rhysand even hated the cranberry sauce over the roasted duck, dripping over the dead bird as though mocking the clotted blood from a hunter's killing blow. But more than anything he hated the red of Amarantha's long, shining hair. Sometimes, he wondered if she realized how he hated the color. The red dripping from her tonight was to make him cringe, and he habitually added blocks to the adamant wall of his mind. Sometimes she was so perceptive, so cruel, that he wondered if she was the one who could slip into others minds like a thief in the night.

Perhaps hate was a strong word. But these days, hatred and loathing were words Rhysand could apply to any manner of things. For example, he hated the sneering faces of her court as they smirked and schemed. Rhysand wouldn't have been surprised to see a huddled group of hooded Fae, softly touching the tips of their fingers together as they sneered gleefully. So like countless plays of Velaris portraying the betrayers, the deceivers and thieves. So typically evil. But hatred was a very familiar feeling to Rhysand, as was loathing and fury. All varying degrees of what he felt toward Amarantha and her court.

He hated the cold of the mountain caves, the dark shadows of the hallways, and the fulsome dust that covered the stone-hewn floors. Rhysand however, coveted his hatred. Hatred and anger were so much easier to carry than such emotions as longing, and sadness. And certainly, much easier than the nauseating sort of happiness Rhysand received when he successfully convinced Amarantha into believing in his seductive smile and sweet lies. Pleasing Amarantha was something he both was revolted and relieved by. However, more than anything else, Rhysand enjoyed the silence in his mind when he was doing nothing. He did not long anymore, he did not hurt anymore, thinking of the friends and life that he had lost 49 years ago. Rhysand enjoyed the silence that filled his head when the burning hatred had long since been blown out, and when the revulsion of his actions left him. Silence was easy to hide, easy to cover with a provocative smile and darkness sweeping in his wake.

Rhysand stood to the right of the finely crafted bronze throne with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, his deep blue eyes nearly watering from the atrocity of the red dress that was sitting a few feet to his left. Amarantha was in true form tonight, her long crimson hair styled neatly on top of her head in braids creating a platform for the mockery of a crown she wore a top her head. The bronze crown twisted to form sharp thorns with roses curled in between the tined thorns. The gown she wore was cut to hug her chest and waist and lined with golden flowers that did little to dim the bloody dress dripping from her body. Her nails were neatly painted gold, and they were currently toying with the bone hanging around her neck. Upon her other hand sat a chestnut eye inside an ostentatious ring, her skin pulled taunt as she tightly gripped the throne. The eye did not move, but instead stared straight ahead as though the spirit contained within was feeling as empty as Rhysand. Amarantha had her legs crossed, and her dark eyes stared out over the crowd from her dais. Her ruby lips were set into a grim smile as she examined her court spread out beneath her.

Amarantha's court was made of many faeries who lingered for power in the Courts of the High Lords. A few of Rhysand's own Court of Nightmares lingered around the room, their cruel faces providing no comfort to Rhysand. They had always enjoyed this type of atmosphere, full of captivity and suffering. Although they were his originally, they were no more loyal to him than they were to any of the other High Lords. The members of his court had hated Rhysand, so much that when Amarantha had taken power they abandoned Rhysand's Hewn City and joined her court without so much as a spiteful look back. Rhysand loathed them, so much more than they hated him, as they only hated him for the control that he had inflicted over them for so many years. Rhysand hated them wholeheartedly, for the cruel creatures they were that fed from fear and power. That first day that he had recognized a member of his own Court of Nightmare's in the Queen's Court, he promised to himself that he would make them pay for their truculence.

Members of the other courts of Prythian were sprinkled about the room as well, mingling with those they would not have dared before Amarantha's reign. The most merciless and sadistic of Prythian gathered in Amarantha's Court, most without invitation. However, some were summoned Under the Mountain tonight. Amarantha was celebrating her soon-to-be victory over Prythian. She always wanted an audience at a celebration. The rest of the High Lords had not been called in yet, so tonight only two High Lords attended to the throne of the Queen. Kallias lingered amongst a group of pale, light haired faeries. He had been summoned, an invitation without choice. Rhysand was the only High Lord to be trapped under the mountain by the queen, bound by his usefulness and her vengeance. Amarantha wanted him to experience because of his father's crimes against the Spring Court, her once allies. The rest of the High Lords were allowed to govern their lands, although their powers were a shadow of what they once were. Kallias was currently talking softly with the few members of his court, all of them looking very out of place. Rhysand thought he looked a bit like an ice block in the fireplace. His hair was cut short, a stark alabaster that seemed to shine from the flickering Fae lights that lined the ceiling above. His crystal blue eyes darted around the room nervously, but his body conveyed the quiet confidence of a winter storm.

Rhysand was feeling unusually irritable this evening, having spent much of the night before servicing Amarantha. The sweetness of a silent mind was impossible to savor this week due to her constant neediness. She was growing more and more restless as the deadline for the curse grew closer, making her more vicious than past times. Rhysand was doing his best to distract her, but he was wearing thin. His loathing was difficult to contain tonight. He was the one who had encouraged her to begin celebrating the undoubted victory with daily parties and feasts, if only to gain a lull from the constant clawing. Rhysand used his power to make her want him, crave him, so much that it was almost impossible for her to think of much else. While he was successful, her restlessness was driving him up the wall. Amarantha's vicious nature was the most difficult beast he had ever attempted to tame.

Tonight, was only day one of the celebration, signaling the beginning of the end of Prythian's hope and of Amarantha's true reign over this continent. Off-kilter music was being played by a group of previous members of his own court. Wine and overly rich food were being served to members of Amarantha's court under the mountain. Rhysand hated this atmosphere, as it reminded him so much of his own Court of Nightmares. He scanned the crowd with a small, cryptic smile plastered on his face. Rhysand had practiced this expression so many times that he could conjure it without more than a flicker of concentration. His hands were in his pockets, and he stood with his shoulders thrown back. As usual, he felt oddly light without his wings. Rhysand thought this would disappear with time, but he always felt like a shadow of himself without them. His night glittered behind him. All for the show.

Rhysand thought of his golden-haired cousin, and how she would loath this atmosphere. She could pretend to be cruel, just as Rhysand was cruel in order to protect his true court, his true home. She would have hated every minute of it, but she would have enjoyed the jealous looks she strutted around the room in a stunning gown from his mother's beautiful collection. Even in rags, Morrigan would be so beautiful it would hurt. It was part of her skillset, a skillset she used to protect what she loved. Mor would always protect Velaris, protect the innocents of his court. She understood the cost, she had paid the cost. That was why she was his second in command. After their night of mocking smiles and blatant displays of power, she would have drunk an entire bottle of wine in one sitting and laughed until she cried. He could almost hear her voice drawn low to imitate Rhysand's tone, "Keir, how dare you look at my regal behind. Next time that you presume to look at my ass-cheeks I will mist you into the piss that you are!" She would wiggle her fingers menacingly, and then take another swig of wine.

Rhysand thought silently of his Illyrian warriors, his brothers in the sky. Cassian would be grinning menacingly out at the crowd at his side, all seven siphons gleaming as he crossed his arms. Cassian was always the fighter, the angry one. Although Cassian would deny it, he would enjoy this place. Cassian enjoyed a challenge, and to prove those who doubted him wrong. He would enjoy the show he put on, and secretly pray for a fight in which he could prove who he was. Afterward, he would be laughing at Mor's imitation of Rhysand and the moment he got Rhysand alone would accuse him of forgoing his training. Azriel on the other hand, would be leaning against a back-wall, unseen and ignored. His shadows would be curling around his shoulders, his clothing dark. His face would be blank, no smile. Just pure, silent maliciousness. Azriel, like Mor, would hate what this place represented. But, he would love the deep shadows in the corner of the throne room, the hallways. He would enjoy the way the shadows whispered to him about the movements of the court. And afterward, as Mor and Cassian drank he would be silently watching as he always did. Quietly loving both from his shadows.

Amren, the little drake, would not have even bothered to come. She would have stayed in Velaris, always hating having to wear a dress and pretend that she was not the otherworldly being that she was. However, if Rhysand asked her to come, she might have thought about it. And if she did come, she certainly would not be in this throne room. He suspected that she would be in the kitchens, gorging herself or perhaps in a quiet room off to the side with a young male with a long neck. Even Amarantha would be smart enough not to challenge Amren, the demon who could not be controlled. And afterwards, she would laugh the loudest at Mor's imitation of Rhysand, her ghostly eyes flashing as she tipped back a glass of blood.

As Rhysand thought of his Court of Dreams, he felt nothing. He had once longed for them, hoped to once again be reunited with them. But as he thought of them, he was again filled with silence. Such… nothingness. Never again would Rhysand see his friends, not as they remained in the Night Court to defend his people. Rhysand could no longer remember their faces, not fully. He could see only the bare bones, the gold of Mor's hair, the shimmering of Amren's eyes, the shadows of Azriel's face and Cassian's wide smirk. But it was like trying to remember how to put together a puzzle that was missing pieces. Parts of a whole that he could no longer visualize. It had been 49 years since Rhysand had seen the completed puzzle of his life. Since Amarantha had stolen these parts of him and replaced it with this nightmare. Rhysand swallowed hard, wondering if this silence was some signal of loss of his sanity. But he kept that mocking smile on his lips. He loosened some grip on his power, allowed tendrils of night to seep out around him. Just enough to remind those watching him exactly who he was. Rhysand, regardless of the curse Amarantha placed over him and the rest of the High lords, was still the most powerful male alive. That ever had been. Even with only glimmering remnants of his power, he could kill everyone in this throne room with a little more than half a though… except for one. The one that mattered.

"Rhysand," Amarantha crooned, placing both hands on both arms of her throne, golden nails gleaming. Rhysand half turned to her, and gracefully picked an invisible piece of lint off his tunic. The rest of the room had instantly gone quiet at the sound of her voice. Even the music has stopped.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" His voice sounded like silken sheets. Oh, how he hated her. But he became what she wanted, what she expected of him. Unyielding, cruel and utterly controlled by her.

"I am growing rather bored of this party, aren't you? Perhaps we can find a way to make it a bit more interesting." Amarantha showed her teeth in what Rhysand supposed was a smile, but to him it looked a bit more like a snarl than anything.

"Bring up Caren," she crowed to the Attor who was slithering around the crowd closest to her throne like the snake he was. Her smile widened even farther until she truly looked animalistic.

The Attor bowed and hissed, "As you wish, Your Majesty. Bring up the prisoner." He waved a scaled gray hand, and two faeries with silky black fur covering their bodies disappeared through the open archway in the back of the room. Rhysand felt as though a rock was sinking through his system, but before he could grasp this feeling it was gone.

The rest of the room started chattering again, the off-kilter music started up again while they waited for the faeries to return with the evening's entertainment.

Rhysand took his hands from his pockets and walked to a table on the north wall of the throne room, piled high with various appetizers and alcohol. Rhysand poured himself a glass of the disgustingly burgundy wine and took a long draw. He turned his back to the table, watching the dais in which Amarantha was seated as the party continued. "Good evening, Rhysand," an icy voice drawled from his right.

Kallias had poured himself a glass of sparkling champagne. He was wearing a pale gray tunic trimmed in silver, his bleached skin seeming at odds with the flickering Fae lights and stone walls. His white hair shimmered. Despite himself, Rhysand felt a cool wind and suppressed a shiver as Kallias silently approached his side.

"Hello Kallias. You know you can call me Rhys, only my enemies call me Rhysand." Rhysand smiled wide at him, showing his teeth. When no reply came, he downed the rest of his wine with a gulp. Rhysand could tell without entering his mind that he was wondering if Rhys was a friend or foe.

"It has been a while since you graced us with your frosty presence Under the Mountain. You wouldn't be avoiding us, would you?" Rhysand stared into the chilled gaze of Kallias, and brushed his mind against Kallias's glacier-like wall. Rhysand slipped in without Kallias so much as noticing and was surprised to find it so full of sadness and ravenous longing. However, Rhysand was not surprised to feel the fear that seeped through his mind, overriding any other emotion.

Rhysand did not like invading the mind of other High Lord's, but Amarantha had given him a direct order the night before. She had ordered Kallias to court, as she would be with many of the others over the next few months to test their loyalty. Rhysand could still the hear the hiss in his ear as she had rode him last night, "We are surrounded by such traitors, my pet. You will find them for me." Her voice was breathless and high, but he felt the pull of her power just the same. Her power did not control him, but the sharp dip in his own natural powers was enough. Still, the self-hatred at the betrayal of entering another's mind was not easy to curb.

Whore. How can he stomach it? Kallias thoughts were nearly screaming at him. Her scent is all over him… and that red mark on his neck… Kallias disgust hit Rhysand like the cold wind above an Illyrian mountain camp.

"Of course not." Kallias left his face carefully blank and as a cold as a blizzard. "Samhain and Winter Solstice festivities have been keeping me busy. It is difficult to leave the Winter Court at this time. Surely you can understand that." Kallias was ever so articulate.

It was an underhanded comment. Nynsar was no secret from other courts, as many traveled to the Night Court to celebrate the beautiful spirits who traveled the night sky that night. And it was no secret that Rhysand had not been permitted to see Nynsar in the past 49 years. Samhain however, was a celebration of the end of harvest and beginning of Winter.

Kallias was attempting to freeze another layer onto the wall in his mind, not realizing Rhysand was already going through his memories. Rhysand tried to skip through the useless memories in his mind, attempting to find enough information to appease the queen. It was hard to ignore the white-haired female who coated Kallias's thoughts, although her face was shadowed as though Kallias had not seen her in a long time. Rhysand hated himself even more at this realization, and he hated the fact that Kallias was good, truly good. He wanted the best for his people and protected his court with a passion as such Rhysand had only loved his own.

"Understand that I can. Although, your presence has certainly been missed at court. One has to wonder if you had been distracted for other reasons." Rhysand said smoothly, but nearly stuttered on the last word of his sentence. Helion's handsome face, and Tarquin's sea foam eyes appeared in a memory from only a week ago. In an area that Rhysand recognized to be distinctly Summer Court. Shit.

Rhysand didn't want to find anything important, just enough to get her off his tail. Perhaps a Winter Court spy in their midst. Or that Kallias was hiding some of his resources from her… but… Foolish bastards. They should be trying to help Tamlin, not trying to create an army to defeat her. Rhysand knew even if an army marched against her under the mountain it would mean little if they were all still controlled by her spell. Rhysand knew that against her complete control even an army wouldn't be enough. Not when she could bring them to their knees with a few thoughts. She was not as powerful as a High Lord, but she had enough her own power and control over theirs that they were hopeless against her.

Kallias didn't notice the change in Rhysand's voice, but his face was even paler than before. "Distracted only by the responsibility-," He was interrupted by hushing of the Queen's Court around them.

The crowd parted, and the two furry Fae stumbled in, gripping a dark-haired male between them. He was pale, with two swollen eyes and a split lip. Blood dripped down his face from a gash above his eyes. One of his delicately pointed ears was missing, leaving a gaping and bloody hole in the side of his head. However, when they threw him to the rug covered floor, he glared up at the bronze throne and the woman sitting on it with eyes like a green flame. His cloths were stained dark with a mixture of his own blood and filth, but his lips remained set in a firm, defiant line.

"Hello, Caren." Amarantha stood, and walked to the edge of the elevated platform, looking down at the Fae male with an almost gleeful look in her eye.

The court underneath the mountain was quiet, the only sound the shuffling of feet as people tried to get a closer look. "They tell me that you still have not told my servants what you were doing creeping around my court all those years ago. That's a shame. Rhysand tells me that you have ability to transform parts of your body. Even in Tamlin's court, that is a rare gift." Caren did not move his gaze from her face, the hatred seeping out of his eyes in almost palpable waves.

"Shame." Amarantha said again. "Are you sure there is nothing you want to say? Now is your chance. Perhaps if you speak up now, we could find a use for you in my court." Her dark eyes pierced down on his. Her hands were like claws at her side. Her head was cocked to the side. Jurian's eye whirled to look at the young male.

Caren remained silent, unyielding, and eyes like a green flame continued to burn. It was impressive really, that he could keep his eyes open that long when she was wearing that hideous dress, Rhysand thought to himself bitterly.

Amaranth clucked her tongue, "Tsk, tsk. Again, what a shame." She lifted her eyes from the filthy male to Rhysand, standing loosely at Kallias's side. "Come, Rhysand."

Rhysand sauntered toward, a small smile painted on his lips. Unyielding. Cruel. "When you get what I need, kill him. He has wasted enough of my prison space." Amarantha hissed cruelly before returning to her throne, waving a hand as if swatting away a fly. Caren's defiant gaze slipped to Rhysand's. While his gaze remained unchanged, as hateful as it was when looking at the Red Queen, Rhysand felt a tremble of fear glimmering from his mind. He could smell the sour tinge of it in the air.

He slipped a hand back in his pocket, in part to keep the crowd from seeing the shaking of his free hand. Rhysand slipped into Caren's mind, seizing complete and utter control, his bare hand curling into a fist. Caren breathed only when Rhysand wanted him to breath. His blood flowed only where Rhysand wanted it. His muscles relaxed involuntarily, even as his fear amplified to an almost unbearable level. Despite the roaring silence in Rhysand's own head, his stomach turned.

In Caren's mind, Rhysand's velvet thoughts whispered, "I am sorry. I am sorry for what she did to you. I am sorry that I can't save you from it." Rhysand made his face stay in a cold, amused mask as he thought these things.

Caren thought back desperately, "Why? Why do you serve her then?" Caren was angry, so very angry. Caren was forced to his knees by Rhysand's power, and his throat curved back to expose his neck, mouth open and eyes still full of terror. All part of the show.

Rhysand began to shift through his mind gently, looking for information on what Tamlin was doing. "I serve her to save my court. And to distract her from others, as they attempt to break the curse." Only to dead men would he ever allow to know these things, to see the truth glimmering from these thoughts like pearls.

Caren had served Tamlin's court as a lord for many years, Rhysand could see Tamlin's long hair and young face from the Spring Court's dining hall. And, as Rhysand looked through his memories, soft as butter as Caren gave himself full over to Rhysand's control, he saw the moment Tamlin asked him to spy for him. Tamlin now had a face slightly lined with strain, and the mask he was cursed to forever wear. But, despite the risk, and no matter the cost, Tamlin asked him to spy on Amarantha. To look through Amarantha's court, trying to find a way in, or to get people out without her notice. What foolishness. He saw the moment that Caren had been pinned beneath one of the clawed members of Amarantha's court. Rhysand watched as Caren desperate tried to transform himself to escape, making his wrists small enough to slide through the links, or large enough to break them. Despite his ability to break from the chains, Caren could never make it past the door. Rhysand watched from the corner of Caren's memory as he was whipped, questioned, and whipped again.

"Why would you risk it? What is he trying to do?" Rhysand asked desperately. He was aware of the eyes surrounding him, glued to him and the male.

Caren laughed silently in his mind. "What wouldn't he try to save? Tamlin has made no progress all these years on breaking this curse… after so many years of his friends dying around him, being killed by humans across the wall, he has given up. His only hope is to help others escape. To protect those who can be protected and get those outside of her control out." As Rhysand heard these thoughts, he felt something slip out from under his feet. Rhysand had thought all his hope was gone, having long stopped dreaming of being free… but hearing that Tamlin had made no progress on breaking the curse…

"Tamlin is a fool. There is no escape from Amarantha. There is only death, and suffering." Even to Rhysand, his thoughts felt empty.

"If there is no escape, no hope, then please. Let this be over. End this." Caren's thoughts, although sad were not afraid. His mind was calm, like the sea with no wind.

Rhysand felt nothing. There was a roaring in his ears. "Please…" Caren thought. And Rhysand knew he felt Rhysand gathering his power.

"Cauldron save me. Mother hold me. Guide me to you…" Caren was praying in his mind.

Rhysand's own thoughts joined his, "Let him pass through the gates, let him smell the immortal land of milk and honey…" with a small twitch of his fingers, Rhysand took away his ability to feel pain.

And then, he closed his fist.

Caren's thoughts blew out like a candle, and Rhysand was thrown back into his own mind. As Rhysand released his power, Caren's corpse fell to the floor. His eyes were open in a shocked expression that Rhysand had painted on for him, his hands awkward folded under his body as he fell forward off of his knees. The blood around his ear, dripping down his face was blindingly red.

Around him, silence reigned. Kallias had cold waves seeping from him, but Rhysand could only hear his own heartbeat. Rhysand smiled cruelly up at Amarantha, the perfect dog that she wanted him to be. Woof, woof. Rhysand thought dully to himself.

"It seems that Caren was sent here to look for a way into your court, Majesty. It seems that Tamlin was hoping to find allies," Rhysand said with a smirk. He slipped both hands in his pockets to hide their shaking.

Cruel laughter echoed from members of the court around him, although notably not from Kallias. Amarantha's dark eyes looked down on Rhysand, the red of her lips pursing into a sharp line.

"He is a fool, if he thinks there are any allies for him here," she placed a groomed hand under her sharp chin, leaning her elbow on the arm of her throne. Rhysand, despite the fortress that held her mind, could feel the tinge of anger and hurt seeping from behind her walls. He knew it bothered her endlessly that Tamlin did not want her, even if he loathed her.

"You may do as you wish," she waved him away. She did not like to look at Rhysand when she was thinking of Tamlin's betrayal. "Kallias," Amarantha instead crooned.

Swallowing back his own self-loathing, he bowed as she dismissed him. He turned and swaggered through the parting crowd, allowing a star-kissed night to follow in his wake. "Cauldron save me… Mother hold me… Guide me to you…" He thought quietly to himself, wondering if he would burst into flames as some heathen. Because, while he was full of hatred, both towards himself and Amarantha he felt a glimmer of pleasure as well. He felt glad to have killed Caren. He felt glad to be able to investigate minds and see the absolute truth. Rhysand felt glad to please her by giving her information…. Because if she was pleased with him, it kept her attention away from the Night Court. Away from his Court of Dreamers, from Velaris and his blameless people. The skin on his knees itched. For the weight of that promise was immense. Only for his court he would bow. And if his court needed him to bow, to kill, to spy, to fuck Amarantha he would, repeatedly.

As he walked to the back of the room towards escape, thoughts and quiet words were hissed at him, from those who both hated him and were jealous of him. Whore. Amarantha's whore. And for his court, he would be her whore. Always.

Entering the hallway through the arched doorway, he casually headed towards his private quarters, so nearby Amarantha's own. He waved a casual hand, unlocking and opening the door with that wave. With another wave, Rhysand closed the door. In a swift movement, he laid down on his large mahogany bed. He lay on his side, staring at the fading fire in his hearth. A fire so similar to the fire in Caren's eyes. After a minute, he rolled on his back and pressed the heels of his hands in his eyes. Fiery green eyes burned behind his lids. And in his ears, he still heard their whispers… Whore.

Rhysand knew he was dreaming. His perspective was too small, and too blurry to be more than a dream. It was like seeing through someone else's eyes, blurry and colors slightly different. In his dream he was watching a hand paint on a table. It was an old oak table, its edges smudged with use and an uneven stain. Across the edges of the table were beautifully painted poppies. Painting these flowers, a small, feminine hand was holding a paintbrush. The paintbrush was obviously often used, some of the soft brush hairs sticking out jaggedly with use. The wood of the paintbrush was stained with multiple colors, a painting in itself. The hand holding the brush had shorter fingers than his own, short enough that while he watched the hand create a flowing vine of poppies from green paint, he realized it must be human. The nails on this hand while pink, were jagged and had a smearing of dirt underneath the tips. The hand was thin, as if the person who was painting with him didn't have enough to eat, but still had such a graceful dexterity to it. The painted poppies were a soft glowing red, pretty, and small. Like little flowering embers.

As he watched, he longed for home, for Velaris. He longed as he had not longed for such a long time. Velaris, full of art, freedom and a beautiful sky. He longed to fly without fear of someone seeing him. The night sky above Velaris, with thousands of stars overhead was something he hadn't seen in 49 years. His wings hadn't carried his weight in just as long. Rhysand felt so light without them. The sky outside of his court he had only seen twice since his imprisonment, only felt the kiss of the wind against his face enough times to count on one hand. And so, as he watched this beautiful human hand, he sent a message to her, through this dream, hoping that the owner would be able to see what she should paint next. This thought was of an open night sky, shining stars and a full moon overhead. Perfect flying weather. The hand, not seeming to understand, continued to paint poppies.

Rhysand rose to consciousness slowly, realizing his disturbance was from Amarantha, red hair gleaming behind her as she rolled over in her sleep. He groaned quietly, hating sleeping in the same bed as this woman, and attempted to close his eyes again. To bring back the dream. The dream did not return to him.

He took a deep breath, and sat up on the side of the bed, placing his tired eyes in his hands. A hand, a painter, a human. What a strange dream. What if it is a vision? What if all of these strange dreams were visions? He rubbed his eyes. Over the past few months, he had been having dreams like this one.

It had started at glimpses, always while he was sleeping, but unlike his usual dreams he remembered every detail of them and these were… cloudy. Foggy almost. And his mind always woke up feeling tired. It was like seeing through someone else's eyes, like his consciousness was roaming the lands while he slept in order to find some reprieve.

The glimpses, were always different. The first time he saw a hearth with a crackling fire in a darkened house. A bale of hay in a barn, yellow and beautiful in its own way. A group of rabbits, huddled together in the cold. An axe, chopping wood in early morning light. It never made much sense to him, but this was the first time he saw hands, body parts or any hint of who owned the eyes he was looking through in these dreams. Visions. He reminded himself. Rhysand rose, walking to the bathroom. He looked at his reflection in the mirror of the bathroom as he filled a basin for a morning wash.

Pale. So terribly pale, paler than he had ever been. His eyes, still a deep violet was sunken in, making him appear almost gaunt. While, still strong, his body was not as lithe as before his imprisonment. Rhysand exercised, but without warriors to push him and for fear of Amarantha thinking he was training for a reason, he was careful. Rhysand wondered if he would be strong enough to even fly if he… no he would not think those thoughts.

Rhysand, after warming a bath, climbed in and sunk in until only his nose stuck out of the water. Oh, how he wished he could release his wings, spread them out and let them enjoy the warm water. But no. Amarantha, or any of the Queen's Court will never see his wings.

This woman… who painted the flowers. His thoughts gravitated back to her. She must be sending him these visions somehow. Or perhaps, he was subconsciously seeking her out. But why? That fog he has to look through, that must be the wall. Rhysand would bet on it. Perhaps this woman he is seeing, he is seeing for a reason. Maybe not just to find reprieve from his miserable existence, but perhaps something else.

For whatever reason, he was grateful. Grateful that the Cauldron had blessed him with the ability to see this woman who had enough safety to paint flowers on a table. Someone, somewhere had enough light, enough freedom be able to mindlessly paint. And that thought alone was enough to get through today. Inside, Rhysand felt not silence but… something. Something small, growing inside of him. He smiled to himself as he bathed.

Rhysand smiled to himself as he scrubbed down a leg. Poppies. And suddenly, he found that he did not mind red as much as he thought he did.

Thank you. Chapter 2 is already written and in the process of being cleaned up for posting. Please review!