A Court of Love and Healing {ACOTAR}

Who Am I, Truly?

Mor stirs her drink absently as she sits at the bar of Rita's. She had taken her leave from the River House shortly after lunch and had roamed the city for a while absently. Lately, she has been questioning herself and what it is she wants to do with her life, however long or short it may be.

Sure, she's made lots of mistakes, and her circumstances had undoubtedly shaped her in a bad way despite how far she has come, but now that the truth—every single part of it—is out to her family, it feels like a weight has been lifted. She feels like she is floating on air and able to breathe for the first time since well, birth. But with that relief, snuck in a wave of uneasiness. With no secrets, there is nothing to guard, nothing to hide, and certainly nothing to be anxious about. It's a good thing, but she had become so programmed to live her life by that standard, that now? She feels empty and unsure of what her purpose actually is anymore.

Without living to guard her secrets, she isn't quite sure what to do with herself. Ever since Andromache left and then died, and then Demetra, just knowing that the one person she had ever truly loved and connected with was wiped from existence all over again and for good makes her whole being ache. It hasn't stopped since she saw Demetra impaled.

It's not as if she hasn't tried. She couldn't even count the number of trysts she had had in the last five centuries if her very life depended on it.

Sighing deeply, she takes a sip of her drink and glances out the window. She isn't perfect. In fact, she knows that she projects her insecurities onto others to avoid them herself. Hell, she knows she was too hard on Nesta. The whole lot of them had fucked up when Nesta had first come to the Night Court. After hearing Cassian's rage and guilt, she couldn't help but rethink the events that transpired. And after the chat she had with Rhys about it, and his ever-so-present coolness on the 'issue', she knows he thinks what he did was right. Maybe in a way, it was. But in other ways, she knows now, it was not.

Despite the tense relationship, Nesta was still her High Lady's sister. Even if Feyre was conflicted at the time as well, Mor knew she didn't want her sister dead. How could she vote for someone so self-loathing to be sent to die? Maybe it was because Nesta could see past her shields and pick at the festering wound inside of her that she tried so desperately to conceal. Part of her own vengeance for simply not wanting to be seen, and by her of all people. Maybe it was because some days she believed she deserved those harsh truths. For everything she had done or not done. For herself, for Eris, and for other girls in Hewn City that she has tried to push out of her mind since leaving.

Not the kind of third in command she should be. Not that she ever truly earned the title. Rhys was her cousin. Despite her love for him and everything he has done for her, she knows deep down that he is flawed too. Something she has noticed more often that he refuses to acknowledge. Like his wounds are also festering. When he had come back from Under the Mountain, he was all about Feyre. He did not get a chance to breathe; to even realize what had happened or the fact that he chose to be a villain to try and protect them. Something that stemmed from his own paranoia. Something that stemmed from his father.

Maybe the Inner Circle should take a step back and evaluate what they have all been doing, or rather, what they have all been avoiding doing for as long as she can remember.

Dealing with their shit.

Hell, Nesta did what they all haven't. Even if she was forced to. Which brings her full circle back to her original thought. What gave any of them the right when they have all ignored their own sufferings?

Tossing back the rest of the drink, she rubs her face. Fuck. She has spent so much time acting like a materialistic bitch. Acting like she had it made, like her life was finally perfect. And the entire time she was miserable. When she had finally escaped Hewn City, it had simply gone from physical torture to inner turmoil on herself.