(•̀ᴗ•́)و ✨

I massively fell out of love with the original concept for this since I failed to render it how i wanted. i'm just not skilled enough yet. a shame because how these two meet has always been very vivid to me. Maybe I'll try to do a better job way down the line in procreate or smthn, I think it's a good exercise.

I'd originally had Tam and Rhys meet immediately after the human war under the pretense that Tam was in his teens when it concluded, but learned later that Tam was born at the start of the 7-year war, when Rhys was 28, so he’d be only 7 if that were the case. So the interpretation has changed a bit...

Tam is about 17 here whilst Rhys is 35. U also must keep in mind that fae age at a different rate and have a different culture around maturity. Rhys appears 20 and is culturally considered “teenaged”. Tam appears closer to 14 and is culturally considered a little baby, arguably too young to be a part of such meetings.

This occurs at the Dawn court like a whole decade after the human war for independence is won. Tensions had mostly died down between Prythian and the Spring Court, the only court that fought staunchly in favor of slavery. They had lost plenty and faced significant indictments during the negotiations that followed, to the extreme displeasure of Tam's father. And yet, there are still negotiations to be made. Dawn Court was considered a neutral touchpoint.

Tamlin himself was silently grateful for the war’s outcome. He’d always been the softest brother, never having been able to stomach his family’s treatment of their slaves. When Tam is asked to shadow the rest of his family as a scribe, he doesn't complain.

Spring and Night’s families pass by each other in the halls in between meetings. Neither would have courteous words to say to one another, as such, everyone is silent despite the palpable tension in the air.

Rhysand, hair still cut close to his scalp from his time commanding the military, stays close to his mother, and pointedly ignores the glares of the Spring royal family. He never let the brutish appearances of the southern slave-owning court ruffle him, despite his burning contempt. Celyddon was easily the strongest high fae male he’d ever seen, and his sons had all inherited his build. Their bodies blocked the sun from his eyes as they walked past.

As the two groups had almost completely passed each other, Rhysand double takes when he spots the unfamiliarly small figure at the back of the entourage.

Since when did Cel have a third son?

The male young, likely no older than twenty; a child. He has the awkward lanky build of one experiencing their first growth spurt, and Rhysand distantly wonders if this one would grow to be as tall, broad, and violent as the others. The boy's hair is as golden as his mother’s and falls like a messy mop about his shoulders. He’s underdressed compared to the rest of the group; almost plain looking. Instead of gripping a court sword, he holds a stack of parchment in his arms.

Eyes like newleaf glance towards him warily, and Rhysand notices the purple swelling around his left eye.