A Muscle In His Jaw Twitches, Light Flickering Out From His Gaze As It Falls Away From Her. He's Played

a muscle in his jaw twitches, light flickering out from his gaze as it falls away from her. he's played his part too well: a master of puppets, strings now being cut one by one, all for her. yet here she stands, with such hate in her eyes. he pretends her accusations ripple right off of him, unaffected — as if his chest didn't ache, as if he weren't full of panic. she wasn't supposed to be here. he was desperate to avoid just this. watched the blood drip & drain from the poor soul he'd unknowingly given up in place of feyre ... it weighs on him, the guilt & despair, knowing it's only a matter of time before feyre is next.

fingers run through night drenched hair, holding back his scowl, as he adjusts his sleeves. " ah. you really believed that? you're smarter than this, feyre. i'm working against her. " voice is run down, haunted. tired of the act. he moves to lean his back against the cool of the brick, dismissing the topic with a small wave. he can't bring himself to defend his actions, for greater good or not. not while clare's body is still limp & lifeless in the other room. hands slide into his pockets, that silver fire coming to light as they meet hers. a humorless laugh erupts from him, bitter & dark. " he could end this. he could get you out of here. " words bald. blunt, as if it were obvious. " tamlin is who she wants. "

i was achingly still as his hand brushed against my cheek, his touch unusually soft and careful, as he neared the budding bruises. staring up at him, i studied him closely, his expression cold and unreadable as he looked me over with renowned intention. it couldn’t possibly be concern i detected flickering somewhere deep within him, and yet he had tried to warn me in his own way. my safety, he had claimed to care about. a part of me had even wanted to believe him, to take him at his word, but everything that happened had made that impossible. tamlin had been right. rhysand was a manipulative monster— he had fed me just enough information to lead me down the rabbit hole that inevitably ended here.

“ you conveniently failed to mention the part about you working with her. that you’re together. ” the way she stroked his thigh with a proprietary grasp had made my stomach churn. they were both sick and twisted. i tried not to physically flinch as he mentioned tamlin — i had been trying not to think of him, of the fact that no one was coming for me. perhaps it was better this way. no one else would have to die for me. my brow knitted as i stared at his black coat for a hesitant moment, as if waiting for some anterior motive, before i reluctantly accepted it and wrapped it around my shoulders — a faint part of myself almost grateful for any level of comfort, no matter how discreet. my voice lost its bite as it lowered further, “ i’m glad he’s not here if this is what’s waiting for him. ”

#𝑹𝑯𝒀𝑺𝑰𝑬 ─ selective + private writing account for 𝒓𝒉𝒚𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒅, from a court of thorns and roses. 21+ only. plot driven & iconless. written by moose ( they/them, 25, cst. ) hardblock only. 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈 ⋆ 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒔 ⋆ 𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡

@shadowsung : “ was it worth what it cost? ”

rhysand has had many nights to contemplate it: the safety of his family, velaris still unscathed. for the price of his freedom, his dignity. all of the carnage he'd witnessed, the suffering he had to inflict — packed into those fourty-nine years, were enough to haunt him for the rest of whatever he has left. what did it really cost? he's unable to even look himself in the mirror, without feeling utter disgust. there is a monster that stares back now, of shadows & bloodshed. he can still feel the ghost of her claws, reminded of them every time someone dares to utter his newfound nickname: amarantha's whore. after everything, every sacrifice, even when he's gone ... that is all he will be remembered as.

the rebelling illyrian camps were the first to whisper of his time under the mountain, that his brother's had heard. whatever bodies weren't turned into red mist, now laying at their feet. he had no desire to reminisce, even if he knew this weren't the last they would hear of it. not when they had so many bands to still deal with. yet he doesn't hesitate, features void of any expression, gaze set on the massacre. " yes. there was no other way. "

spicing up conversations by saying 'you really believe in that' at the most basic inane things

rhys having a wine collection like the pretentious old bisexual man he is

most nights are filled with tossing & turning, waiting for sleep that never comes. he finds himself out on the balcony more often than not: taking comfort in the star filled endless dark sky, the sea breeze washing away night terrors. it's the only time he finds peace these days.

this time, however, the idea of serenity seems far off. it seems sleep doesn't come so easy for more than him. he's halfway tempted to turn around without a word, avoid the exchange that will no doubt turn volatile within seconds. it always did with them. yet against better judgment, rhysand only stares blankly at nesta, no amusement flickering in his dark gaze — floating to the bottle in her hands.

" ah. so you're who's been drinking my cellar dry. here i was, blaming cassian. " the usual bite in his words is lacking, neutral. too exhausted for a fight. with a breath, he takes the chair next to her, snatching the bottle from her fingers before inspecting the label.

" expensive taste. " it's followed by a swig, leaning back to relax, sore bones sighing in relief. " couldn't sleep, either? "

there’s something livid and furious within her, it rages and feeds off her festering anger she was born with. no that isn’t right, she was born a common ordinary baby. her mother trained it into her, her grandmother tormented her to make her perfect. she doesnt know where to put all those feelings. or even what to do when those feelings aren’t just anger, when there’s grief, when there is hurt.

a bottle of wine in hand as she glances at the male who walks towards her. lips lift in mockery of a smile, little more than a sneer as she salutes with the half emptied bottle.

‘ little lord rhysie-poo. your general let that one slip —. how can i serve you my lord? ‘

no slur to her speak, but her cold calculating gaze haunted more than angry. she is almost languid on this late night. the exhaustion of the nightmares that don’t let her sleep mellowing that anger to an ache, the flames of her fury banked to ashes that merely smolder.

‘ if you’re just going to stand there, mind going to the left? you’re blocking my moon beam. ‘

nesta && rhys // @rhysie