Chapter Text
Blessed and cursed to have a mortal High Fae form, Amren found it harder than ever to find rest. There were so many new sensations and feelings to contend with—the indescribable exhaustion of her literal death notwithstanding. Where things like sleeping, eating, and waking had come naturally before, every hour brought new adjustments. Late-night walks had helped, if only a little. When Amren passed Mae’s Café, her High Lord was the last person she expected to see inside.
Her jaw went slack with awe, thin eyebrows knitted in disbelief as she inched closer to the window. Rhysand reclined in a café chair in a highly unlordly manner, legs spread, eyes shut, and hands resting on his flat and toned middle. Before him were six—no, seven—empty pie dishes. He breathed heavily from his open mouth, its corners dotted with bits of crust and filling. Amren was shaken from her observation as a painful hiccup escaped Rhysand’s lips and elicited a groan. She hurried inside the shop.
“Good evening.” Amren addressed the older faeries calmly, coolly, where they stood behind the counter. Their faces were wrinkled and warped with age, but their eyes were kind. Still, Amren couldn’t help but shoot them the most threatening glare her mortal form could muster. Rhysand barely stirred from his seated position and released another pained hiccup.
“What an honor to serve your High Lord.” She sought the right words, knowing these females had little choice but to refuse the High Lord’s requests and struggling to understand what in the Mother’s name could have inspired this behavior from Rhysand. “I trust you will also honor him with your…discretion.”
The females nodded and instantly disappeared into the kitchen, to Amren’s relief. She turned her attention to Rhysand, whose heavy-lidded eyes flickered open as she approached.
“What in the Cauldron has gotten into you tonight?” Her voice was a hissed whisper. He groaned a pathetic response. Rhysand tried to rise and nearly doubled over in pain, prompting Amren to reach for his arm and help him up. Together, they hobbled toward the shop door.
The cool air revived Rhysand somewhat, and he felt more alert than he had in Mae’s warm, sweet, and sleepy café. He was conscious of Amren at his side, keeping him upright, and a heavy fullness where his hunger once was. It felt…mostly unpleasant. But it was somehow better than the emptiness that had gnawed at him since returning to Velaris. Walking was difficult, but not impossible, and he leaned on Amren for support.
“I didn’t know you were a sleepwalker,” Amren jested, seeing Rhysand perk up as they began in the direction of the townhouse. He laughed with a weak wheeze.
“I was walking to sleep. I couldn’t…anyway. Just stopped for a snack.” Rhysand mumbled the end of his response, suddenly feeling the hotness of shame creep up the back of his neck. It was a completely foreign sensation to him, and he quickly shook it off, hoping Amren wouldn’t sense his discomfort. The events of the night blurred in his head, and his memories of the pies were hazy.
“I know the feeling.” Silence hung between them. She, too, had felt existence between death and nothingness. Perhaps more than once.
At the steps of the townhouse, Amren turned to look him up and down, her small red lips pursed with concern rather than their usual smirk. Like Rhysand, the void weighed on her thoughts. She swore she’d seen Amarantha for a second, but the female’s presence had vanished so abruptly that Amren couldn’t be sure. It could have been some figment of her—or Rhysand’s—dying fears. Still, a foggy image of Amarantha wrapping something around Rhysand’s neck was burned in her memory…
Nearly hidden beneath a black silk collar, Rhysand’s chain gleamed in the frosty moonlight. Amren saw it immediately as he faced her. He appeared tired once again, their brief walk successfully preparing him for sleep. Rhys leaned in to embrace her, offering a gesture of appreciation. Amren didn’t think twice before undoing the clasp. The glinting metal beckoned to her, and she dangled it before Rhysand as he pulled away. She jokingly thought he might barter it in exchange for her discretion, knowing her penchant for shiny, expensive things.
“Since when do you wear rose gold?” she asked, playfully, the necklace dangling from her fingers.
Before he could answer, a shudder wracked Rhysand’s frame, and a soft moan slipped through parted lips. His stomach began to push out against the fabric of his shirt, tightening the fit and straining the buttons below his chest. In mere seconds, his athletic frame was bloated with a tight, full stomach that betrayed his night of gluttony.
His face burning, Rhys snatched the chain from Amren’s grip and fastened it around his neck wordlessly. Her eyes remained wide as she watched his stomach deflate back to its normal, muscled state. He couldn’t speak, could barely think as he stood before Amren and his front door. Something wasn’t right, and he’d known it from the moment he came back to life on the battlefield. From Amren’s face, Rhys could tell she’d known it too.
“That curse is fucked.”