Draconikia - Tumblr Posts

with every court held, rhysand forced to observe, ( take in information, learn the ropes, nothing more ) he's reminded just how dull these political meetings can be. only finding amusement when words get heated, emotions rising ... if he's lucky, a fight breaks out & captures his attention once more, though that seems to be few & far between, lately. things have been quiet, a good sign. a mark of peace, finally, in prythian. though his father has shown his doubts on how long that will last.

strengthening their allyships, he supposes, is the reason for inviting the other courts to their celebration of starfall. while he should be cementing friendships with the elder brothers of the spring court — their behavior reminds him of those at the illyrian camps when he was younger, having to defend & prove he was more than just a half - breed. tyrants targeting those they thought beneath them.

perhaps that's why he always seeks out the youngest of the brothers at these gatherings — he sees his friends in him ... has unspoken sympathy for him, what his family puts him through. whether his presence is appreciated, or not. rhysand doesn't care, only wishing to offer him support. their friendship that blossomed with it was an added, unexpected bonus.

this day is no different, rhysand finding tamlin after exchanging pleasantries with everyone he was supposed to. he appears from the shadows, watching the other lost in his own world. wordlessly, he takes a seat, a smile dancing upon his features — imagining the melody he'd be strumming if he could.

gaze flickers toward the sky, spirits twinkling & shooting across the horizon, a sight he'd never lack appreciation for. contemplating the question with a hum, he'd never give it much thought. the thought of ever finding a mate, at this point, is shut out from his mind. why would he ever put another through this life? perhaps this is why he enjoyed tamlin's presence. his guard lowers: any of the politics, the scheming, the formalities are forgotten. they are allowed to just be.

" my mother seems to think so. " a small shrug, watching another star brightly whirl around, followed by another. to have that love ... he knows he doesn't deserve. his head lowers, to look at tamlin, taking in the softness in his features, reading each thought as if they'd appeared on his face. his tone switches, to something more teasing, an attempt to lighten the other's mood. " why, dear tamlin? don't tell me you're feeling lonely. do we have to take you to the nearest brothel? "

it is not easy to make friends, marked as they were, set apart and labelled for a future they didn't ask for. the accident of birth unfair to say the least. to endure such scrutiny of being first born, tamlin does not like to dwell. though older brothers are a particular type of gruesome punishment, he cannot help but be glad for the insulation provided between his and their exacting father. he will never be high lord, but he will always be the high lord’s son.

in some ways, tamlin understands the younger of the night court siblings. the sister with too canny eyes and too clever a mouth. but it is rhysand he finds himself thrown together with, after meetings, at events, the courtiers to machinate them together. to see if conflict or friendship blooms.

such courtly event is where tamlin finds himself, absent from the spring court on the longest day of the year — he watches the sky alight with splotches of irridescent glowing orbs cascading to — somewhere. he’s never been one for philosophy or history, he has no investment in the religions that different courts hold. his god is music and he has been its humble servant.

that is why, fingers play a silent melody on invisibly strings. he knows the sounds this would make, knows the roaring in his ears as he loses track of his surroundings would be cause for reproach, but it is not until he notices his vision dimming that he’s drawn from his reverie. the heir approaches.

a quiet nod of acknowledgement, fingers withdrawn from the bannister he’d been imagining as an instrument, fists now at his side.

‘ rhysand — ‘

what else is there to say? he’s been sent as diplomat and instead of doing anything regarding diplomacy, or what he suspects his father really desired, intelligence gathering, he has composed a symphony that his fingers itch to transcribe to music.

eyes glance back out to the cascading souls, two merging and half entwined as they fall. he catches rhysand following the same with his gaze. and tamlin ventures at last — something beyond merely a name.

‘ do you think, that if you’re mates — you will follow each other, even into death and beyond? to — wherever these souls go? ‘

he does not like the quietness that has filled his voice, he does not think he will have a mate. he is not powerful like his siblings, his time spent either in the villages and outlying areas playing music, or traipsing in his beastly form. but sometimes, when he watches two immortal souls fall from the great above to the great below. he wonders what it would be like to be loved like that. to be allowed to be so selfish that you would choose that person above all. to damn anyone but them. to damn yourself, for them.

tamlin && rhysand starter // @rhysie

@draconikia : kisses rhys cheek and pats him. pretty highlord.

fingers tousle through cassian's hair, messing up onyx strands as he leans into his touch. he plays off the comment with a mere shrug, lips turning into a small smirk. " it appears the lord of bloodshed has gone soft, hm? "

" i've given up trying to enforce a curfew with you years ago. " warm laughter echoes through his throat, hand sliding to idly trace over illyrian markings across the nape of cassian's neck. " i wanted an update on the camps. " he neglects to mention the worry that plagues his thoughts every time he has to send him there. his safety is of little concern — no, cass can handle himself. but every visit is tolling, even for him. to be rejected by your own, even now ... he shakes it off, pulling features into a smile. a tsk. " though, perhaps that can wait. i can smell now that you're in desperate need for a bath. "

vaguely offensive considering cassian had been paying homage to the particular decadence and beauty of his highlord. but then again, cassian is just back from three solid weeks of training in the illyrian camps. there isn’t a single part of him that wouldn’t benefit from a long hot bath and sleeping for four straight days. maybe his opinions on proper behaviour towards your highlord is skewed? a nuzzle to rhys’ neck as his curls are ruffled. a humph.

‘ tired s’all. why’re you up? is it past my curfew? ‘

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