Hello and welcome to tumblrs Rhysand week! So excited to be hosting this and engaging with you all! For 2024 you can find lots of Rhys love here from August 18-24. Find more info about the event below as well as the 2023 masterlist!
Event Masterlist
Guidelines
Prompts
Some more guidelines for posting and tracking content (on tumblr and AO3)
2023 Event Masterlist
If you have any questions, feel free to reach out!
Now that RhysandWeek2024 is officially over, we just wanted to go ahead and give a special shoutout to @littlest-w01f and @readychilledwine for contributing so much to the event!!
They not only dedicated themselves to providing content every single day, but also made it a point to support and uplift as many contributors as they could.
Included below are each of their biggest hits from this week:
'Punishment' written by @littlest-w01f for Day 4 - Lord of Night :
Rhysand x Reader
For @officialrhysandweek
Rhysand week 2024 Masterlist
Day 4: Lord of Night
Summary: You knew your mate, Rhysand could b
'5 Steps Forward, 2 Steps Back' written by @readychilledwine for Day 5 - Survivor :
Rhysand Week Day 5 - Survivor
Summary - 50 years without your mate and husband seems almost easy now that you two are facing his recovery
POV: you could not prevent it (the scheme you cooked up yourself)
i literally failed to finish even a single one of my rhys week fics so drawing something was my last way to even contribute anything and @separatist-apologist's idea of armand!rhys has not left my head since the moment i read it
After the murder of his mother and sister by the Spring Court, Rhysand confronts his father, longing for punishment and absolution. Instead, the High Lord has a lesson for his youthful son.
Tags: Descriptions of violence, grief, toxic family relationships
I love you @witch-and-her-witcher for the beta read and support! I wrote this during some of the worst weeks at work ever so I hope the brain cells were there.
And I hope you like some Saturday afternoon angst!
Fic under the cut!
Broken.
Everything here was broken.
Shards of cracked and splintered black marble littered the great hall of the Moonstone Palace. Lines of white and gold like veins, the ground splintered like spiderwebs and covered in a layer of dust.
The Prince of Night sprawled against a chunk of marble twice his size, jagged and sharp. Rhysand panted with exhaustion. His head tipped back against the stone, tears making tracks through his dust-coated skin.
Too soon his body was recovering - his energy returning. He had torn the room apart in anger, in grief, begging for the oblivion of exhaustion.
The curse of his dark power - to never yet find the end of it.
Again, the memory and horror washed over him. A dark, endless play in his mind’s eye. Two heads, bloodied and disheveled, faces locked in fear staring up from floating baskets. Their skin the faded color of winter. Every act of cruelty and violence etched on their once beautiful faces.
He turned to the dust-laden floor and vomited.
It was black bile that burned as it came. Nothing left from whatever hours or days he had spent in this fog of grief.
Not just the pain of their absence - but the horror of the violence, the suffering that threatened to pull him under to some murky, vile place he feared he might never return from.
He should not have gone into the mind of the Illyrian patrols who found their heads floating in the river.
But he couldn’t not see. The same as he would never purge the image of their bodies found hours later - stiff and bloodied in the snow, stumps where proud wings had once flared.
The mountain trembled again beneath him.
Would his father let him tear it all apart?
Could he even stop himself?
Ever since he started rending the room into pieces, his power had been seeping like oil through the Moonstone Palace into the rock of the mountain - deeper and deeper until he felt its great cold roots in the earth. Gripped it with nervous tendrils of shadow. Ancient and powerful rock that he longed to pull from the ground like weeds only to tear apart in his hands. An act of primal destruction, like the forging of the earth.
He knew the Night Court was cast in darkness. No moon or stars or rising sun would penetrate the midnight shroud over their lands.
Perhaps it was cast over all of Prythian. Rhysand hoped it reached to Spring - that it wilted flowers and field, a dark portent to whatever fate awaited them.
Because await them it would. But not for long.
Amren had taught him to control his power, but not yet to see the full breadth of it. But he let his power leak, let it drip from him without a care.
The tiny beast hadn’t even come to see him.
Probably for the best. He had snarled at Cassian and Azriel as they found him in Windhaven - winnowing away with a whiff of sulfur, the rushing of air. Nothing in him was ready for their fallen faces, to watch the grief echo back and forth between them.
So he was selfish, leaving them to their own pain. Throwing up shields brimming with sharp starlight and cold winter night in jagged configurations around the Palace, to remain undisturbed.
Two faces again behind his eyelids - his sister’s eyes shut tight, face scrunched in pain. His mother’s - fearful and wide, facing the end with open eyes.
He wondered who they had killed first. Who had to watch the other die before their eyes, hope winking out.
Samara - the proud Illyrian Queen, young but fearless Lady of Night.
Amira - the shining star of the court, the only evidence of his father’s capacity for affection.
His family. His beating heart ripped from his chest. An immortal lifetime of possibility stolen from him forever.
And all his fault.
Whether he would have died with them or ripped the Spring brutes apart - he should have been there. Told them he would be there. Told Tamlin where they would be, before meeting him next week for training –
Tamlin.
He repeated their names in his mind. Cador the High Lord. Rian. Owen.
Tamlin.
The unfathomable betrayal. Or worse - the betrayal he had been warned about, his stupid, arrogant self ignoring his family and friends for the fierce training and tender passions of the third Prince of Spring.
Tamlin.
The name was burning poison in his mouth.
Rhysand let it burn, let it dissolve and corrode inside of him, joining in the heavy despair of his grief.
He didn’t know how much time had passed in that silent tomb of a hall. As his power rose he tore it apart again, but without his initial vigor, sending stones clashing against each other, but without the taste for total destruction. Like a child playing with blocks, tired and plowing through their towers.
He knew it to be true: he could tear this palace, this mountain to pieces, cast the world into darkness.
But still, his father would not come to him.
He would not stoop so low, even to his grieving son.
When Rhys felt the heat of the sun burning against his blanket of deep twilight, he willed his muscles to move.
Feet carried him unconsciously, the walls of the palace passing before him without recognition as he walked down, down into the Hewn City, wards flickering to his blood and power.
Underground, black banners were already hanging from buildings and the windows of decadent manors. Voices wailed in the city center. Rhysand stuck to the shadows. What did these people ever care for his mother, his sweet sister, other than their fearful obedience?
He found his father in his grand bedroom behind the throne room, a pale attendant at his side.
Emrys had no crown on his sandy-colored head, shot with white around the temples, in the privacy of his chambers, but still power in the room thrummed with his command. His deep inset eyes, dark under his heavy brow, didn’t leave the sword he polished in his hands. Rhys stood uselessly in the door.
“Leave us.” The High Lord did not raise his voice, did not show any signs of sharing the raging grief of his son, disheveled and tear-stained, as he dismissed his servant.
Greased cloth glided over black metal, mottled and banded with swirling patterns like dripping water.
The room was grand and furnished lushly, all rich velvets and silks, the fireplace carved out of stone and large enough to roast a boar. During the day, sunlight streamed in from chiseled pathways and clever mirrors, even this deep into the rock.
But the comfort of the room was lost against the ebbing violence emanating off the High Lord. Sovereignty effortless and pervasive, as if at any moment he would exhale too loudly and blast the walls apart. He took no care now to cast any glamour, to temper himself. Like a glistening diamond uncovered in the rock. After eight hundred years, his son knew he no longer cared what anyone thought of him - even his family - other than that he was terrible and brutal.
Rhysand stood in silence. Waiting. Wordless. What could he now say to him?
This was his long life, stretching before him: only him and his father, bonded together in misery. Wholly without the light of his mother and Amira.
No more would his mother be the fierce but extended bridge between them, or Amira the beating heart of the family. Their beauty and laughter was gone and now from the world. And Emrys with his half-breed son raised in the unrefined wilds, a disappointment at every turn, and a threat with his growing power. Eyes that never looked at him but to find a fault, or a useful pawn, or a nuisance to be dismissed.
How much more oppressive this place would become with the two of them, hating each other for all eternity.
Emrys paused in his rhythmic, unconscious polishing, nicked the tough skin of his thumb against the newly honed edge of his sword. A drop of blood, red as rose petals, slid down the blade.
The High Lord sat there, no sign of tears on his cheek, no rent clothes, only the mating band on his left hand any reminder of what he had lost.
“Finally you come to me,” he said, watching the wound on his thumb seal back, glowing with magic.
Rhysand bit down his anger, his fear, and fell to his knees.
Hard hewn stone bit into his kneecaps. But it was all right - his body was just a vessel now. Just a carrier of pain. He deserved much more.
He didn’t dare to look at his father. Choking swells of tears rose in his throat, rage and shame. Rhysand bowed his head and shut his eyes tight.
“I am to blame. I accept any punishment from your hand.”
Silence reigned. Rhys waited, calm acceptance in his chest, whether it be for the High Lord’s pitiless wrath or to fall under the quick slice of metal on his neck.
But nothing came. Nothing moved.
Rhysand looked up.
His father’s eyes were locked to him, piercing dark blue - a mirror to his own, the only shared feature, the only reminder of their common blood. Filled with disdain, with disgust.
“What would be a fitting punishment for this, Rhysand? What do you propose?”
The Prince of Night clenched his jaw tight. Against the tears ready to spill, another sign of his weakness and frailty for his father to sneer at.
And also in desperation. To be punished, to have judgment meted out by the High Lord, who he had wronged…who else could give him the condemnation he desired, the retribution fit for his crimes? He could disappear into it - the righteous retaliation of the widower, father, High Lord.
“It was my fault. You warned me. Everyone warned me not to trust him. To trust Tamlin.” His name was noxious in his mouth, his vision still of green eyes and a bright smile, a golden hearty laugh, irreconcilable with this act of viciousness. Of cowardice. “I wasn’t there, when I said I would be. I didn’t protect them. And now they’re - they’re dead. Because of me.”
His voice was a hollowed whisper, his throat ragged and raw. Dead. The first time he spoke the words aloud.
Emrys snorted a laugh, no smile found on his face, shadows cast in his hollow cheeks. “My son. Always the fool.”
Rhysand took a sharp breath against his growing anger. I accept the punishment. I will accept whatever he directs at me. I deserve all of this and more.
The High Lord’s stare did not falter. Rhysand could feel the invectives growing and building inside his father, his lip curling in displeasure. “Always swaggering around the world, like this Cauldron-given power was something you earned. As if it would protect you, as if you were untouchable. The lesson you refused to learn from me.
“You think me mistrusting, isolated. You look upon me with the eyes of fervent youth to only find fault and shortcomings. But now perhaps you will listen to me. Now you will learn. What it takes to have power in this world. What it takes to keep it. You are not an immovable mountain, Rhysand. You are a target. And every day, every moment, your enemies will chip away at you, and everything you hold dear, until they vanquish you. That is the life of a fae of power, that is the life of a High Lord.”
Rhysand inhaled deeply under his cutting look, his father: cold and cruel, forever locked away in his Court, rarely setting foot out of its borders. Rhys had longed for the world, after seeing so much in the war, taking every opportunity to attend summits and meetings and respond to summonses. Hungry for Prythian, for knowledge, for the bright crackle of life and the oddities and newness it held. While his father brooded, paranoid and angry, lying and ignoring the rest of the Courts, keeping the Night Court secrets close.
It was true - he had disregarded him. Had thought him twitchy, frightened, closed minded. Always finding enemies, always hearing the threat behind the door when Rhysand longed only to wrench it open.
“I need to know what else you told him. I need to know if Spring knows about Velaris.”
A cold fist of offense grabbed hold of his heart.
But wasn’t he right, to suspect? To be cautious?
Weren’t his mother and sister more precious to him than the hidden city? And he had given them up without a thought.
“No. He knows nothing beyond public doings of the Hewn City, and some old stories of Illyria.”
“And he knows of your powers? Of your dissatisfactions, of your youthful emotionals and desires to use against you?”
Rhysand swallowed. “Yes. He was my friend.”
Emrys grunted as he sat down again at the foot of his bed. Picking up a stone and a short knife, its handle a soft polished wood inlet with pearl, and started to sharpen.
He was quiet again for a while. Rhysand felt his legs cramp, his kneecaps ache against the stone. “Fortunately for you, you are now my only heir. And while I never sought to have you, I won’t deprive my court of the stability of succession. No matter how little you might deserve it.
“And if you are lucky, you’ll have millennia ahead of you to punish yourself. Or to ask your High Lord to, as you have done with everything difficult in your life. But now is not the time.”
Rhys kept his head bowed, breathing through his despair.
“Get up off your knees.”
“So you will not give me what I desire?”
A hiss emanated from his father. “You are full of grief, and yet still you would fight me instead of listening,” Emrys clenched his jaw as he examined the gleam of the edge of his knife in the raging fireplace. “I will not say I was remiss in your education. I had to forge my legacy alone, as you will, Rhysand. You will learn or you will fail, as the Mother sees fit. The crown will rest on your head. There is no doubt that when I am gone the power will go to you and only you can choose how to handle it. Only six others know what it is to be blessed and tied to the land, and we’d rather cut off our own hands than speak to each other. So do not expect lessons, or a helping hand, when you grapple with the power. ”
He sighed, finally done with the sword, his eyes locked to the flickering flames. “I know when the weight of the court is on your shoulders and the centuries have made you tired and brittle, you will remember me. You’ll remember your foolish, youthful spite and when you finally recognize the solitary prison of your throne, I will be long gone, and unable to assuage you.”
He exhaled again. Sheathed the knife at his side. He brought his sword to his back, strapped across from shoulder blade to hip, unlike the spinal column blade of the Illyrians. “Such is the way of it.”
Rhysand stood still as marble, fists clenched.
He couldn’t believe his father - he would be a different kind of ruler someday, not so cold, not so vicious and merciless. He would dream and work create a Velaris of the whole world.
Emrys laughed, as if sensing his thoughts.
“It is the undeniable truth of being High Lord - that your power came from the death of another. The poets and the historians may dress it up however they like, but a High Lord’s power is forged in death. To be a High Lord is to be fatherless. To be a High Lord is to be alone.”
“I don’t believe that.” All the reaching he had done, his heart straining across long quiet dining tables, aching for the eyes of his father to fall on him, to show even the hint of softness underneath. That hollowness inside made Rhysand brave. “You had your mate. You had your family. You chose to be alone.”
Emrys hummed, dismissive. “I will not argue with a child. Now is not the time.”
“When is the time?” Rhys snapped. If he could not speak plainly with his father when their whole world was broken, could not find a drop of love or care in him even at the death of his family, was there anything decent to be found in him at all?
“I believe you are as fond of this performance of grief as you were of your mother and sister.”
The words hit him like boulders to his chest.
The old man must truly not feel anymore, had lost all ability to understand anything beyond himself and his own power.
Leave it to his father to drag him out of grief and into rage.
“Do I shame you my lord, by mourning for my own flesh and blood? My deepest apologies, I should have known better than to think you would care.”
A snap of power arced across the room, across his face like a blow.
“Do not test me, boy,” the snarl of anger, of pure violence Rhysand had been craving since he set foot under the mountain. Hand on his burning cheek, Rhysand looked up. Saw his father’s knuckles white with restraint. “There are many things, an entire world of things you know nothing of. To lose a mate –” Emrys eyes flickered away, a snarl twitching at his lips. The only sign he was affected. More emotion than Rhys had seen from him in years.
The High Lord closed his eyes. Took a breath deep into his lungs. The tension did not leave his shoulders.
When he spoke again, his voice was low. “You will never know, Rhysand, what it is like. If you are ever cursed and blessed with a mating bond then I wish you better fortune than I. To have a mate is to no longer belong to yourself. To have pieces ripped and torn from you that can never be returned.”
All the hatred Rhys had ever felt for his father gathered at once, roiling in his stomach, acid and poison burning from within. “So you resent her? The Cauldron chose a mate for you and all you feel is regret?” Too late he realized he spoke of her as if she was still here…the pain of remembrance crumpling inside him all over again, even amidst his rage.
“You do not understand.”
Canines, tearing through the soft flesh of his mouth, an iron tang on the Prince’s tongue. “She loved you. I don’t know why, but she did. And all you ever gave her in return were orders, as if she were some servant, as if she were some possession of yours to move from palace to palace. And that was when you weren’t ignoring her outright. Did you ever even –”
The slap on his face this time wasn’t from magic, it was the hard sting of flesh, the rings on his father’s hands bruising his cheekbone.
Rhysand fell from the force of it, hard hewn stone on his back, his father towering over him like a dark storm.
“You don’t understand. There is a part of me now that is gone. Forever. It’s in my chest and there’s a –” another deep breath, his face scrunched in pain.
Emrys fought again to master himself, chest heaving as he stood over his son.
“I don’t understand. How can you be so calm? How can you be so accepting”
The High Lord sighed, burdened and angry. “I carry heavy weights every day. I have grown accustomed to them. The weight of the court is upon me always, the power, the care, the suffering. Obedience and betrayal. A plot at every corner. Sycophants and assassins. And all the while the people who rely on you, open hands, hungry mouths. Their cries of suffering are at your hands, their pain, your failure.” Rhys was surprised at the candor, at the care in his father’s words.
“You are my son, Amira was my daughter, but every Night Court member is my child. My responsibility. This you will learn too one day, if you can someday overcome your natural selfishness. There is no choice or thought…if you are a good High Lord, you will bleed for them a thousand times over and it will never be enough. You learn to protect the inner parts of you, the last bit of blood to keep you going another day.”
“So this is what you have to teach me, father? That I’m doomed to a life of loneliness, that a mating bond is a curse, that I’ll be crushed daily under my duties and responsibilities? That there’s no joy or love in the future, only duty and pain?”
Emrys shrugged. A thoughtless gesture, so boredly casual Rhysand almost laughed. “You will make your own life, Rhysand. One day you will have to make your own choices without me. I will not fight for your understanding if you continue to be a fool. Come, we’re wasting time. The sun is setting across Prythian and night is coming to the Spring Court.”
“What?”
Emrys stood, flipping another sword in his hand to inspect, then sheathing it at his side. He offered a hand to Rhysand. His son flinched.
A steady look passed between them. Filled with stars, filled with eternity. And a question. Rhysand finally took his hand and stood.
The Prince of Night eyed his High Lord with wariness. Although he knew him to be powerful and a fighter in his youth, it was rare for him to be the warrior, to set aside his power and step away from the Illyrian legions to hold steel in his own hands.
“I hope you will be strong. I hope you have learned something from those damned Illyrians. I could have taught you more, but you would’ve made a poor pupil. And I a poor teacher.” Rhysand cocked a brow, at the strange admission. “But it’s too late for that now. Let me teach you the final lesson - how to treat with your enemies.”
Rhysand’s blood went cold.
Yes, he had plenty of thoughts of blood on his hands, of Spring running red with it. And in his heart he knew there was no other answer from his father.
But now it was real.
And Tamlin…his mother…
“It’s high time you put to use these supposed powers of yours. You will show me what everyone whispers across the court about my Cauldron-blessed son.” A command. “You will serve me in this, and work to clean the debt now upon you. You will hold their minds, we will not give them an instant to summon any defense. And they will know the terror that lurks in the darkness.”
There was relief, shameful but sure and calm, at the order of the High Lord. The Prince would have no choice, he would obey orders, he would be a weapon for his father and nothing more.
And yet –
“We cannot kill the Lady of Spring. Every male must bleed, but we cannot be like them.”
Emrys shook his head, his blond hair brushing onto his forehead, strangely disheveled. “You’re still not listening.”
“I am listening. If I had a mating bond, I would not wish the death of my mate. And I would not wish it upon another, if it tears you apart. The death of her family would be enough suffering for all.”
Rhysand saw the resistance, dismissive in his father’s face.
“Promise me.”
Emrys eyes flashed. Rhysand had never demanded things of his father, never had the bravery.
So he watched while the High Lord considered. Nodded. “It will be as you say.”
Emrys stopped the sure movement of his hands, which had been buckling belts, smoothing the front of his tunic, tightening the sheath of his weapons. His gaze upon his son was suddenly heavy, knowing. Rhysand felt the full weight of it. Longing was prickling in him, to winnow, to dive into the violence awaiting them before he had time to balk.
In a matter of hours, maybe minutes, Tamlin would be dead. The Spring Court decimated by Night. A High Lord killed for his crimes, descendents wiped from the earth.
No matter the thrumming power of the order of his father, Prythian would know what befell the Spring Court. Who was the only one who could hold minds and overpower High Lords and their sons. This was the beginning of his legacy. His father would lead the way but Prythian, and the world, would soon only know the son of Night as the terrible angel of retribution.
Slowly, Emrys unsheathed the knife from his side. Flipped it in a smooth motion. Offered it, gleaming wood handle, to his son.
An order. A question.
Rhysand breathed. Traced the inlet pearl in the handle with his eyes, glimmering like starlight.
Two faces, contorted in pain. The tinkling of laughter, the warmth of wings encircling him. The soft sound of his mother’s voice as she sang him to sleep.
Rhysand reached out his hand, and grasped the knife.
Book 1 Slightly Evil Rhysand is my favorite Rhysand.
Everything about the stranger radiated sensual grace and ease. High Fae, no doubt. His short black hair gleamed like a raven's feathers, offsetting his pale skin and blue eyes so deep they were violet, even in the firelight.
~ A Court of Thorns and Roses, ch. 21
@officialrhysandweek
Thank you @copypastus and @thrumbolt for inspiring me with your faerie-fied versions of all the ACOTAR characters we know and love!
For Rhysand Week Day 7: Free Day, I give you: romcom Rhysta AU. I have to give credit to @beansidhebumbling, who shared a snippet of a "10 Things I Hate About You" Rhysta fic that changed me at a molecular level. In that vein, I give you: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days Rhysta!
@officialrhysandweek
Nesta is a journalist for a woman's magazine that's always wanted to write things that matter. Her boss has promised her that she'll be able to write whatever she wants after one more article: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. She has to find a guy, start dating him, then convince him to break up with her within 10 days.
The problem? Her target is Rhysand, a playboy advertising executive who needs to make a woman fall in love with him within 10 days to be his company's liason for a lucrative diamond marketing campaign.
*****************************************
Rhys leaned against the railing on his balcony, eyes glued to the gorgeous woman sashaying towards a taxi with a tantalizing sway of her hips. His lips still stung from their kiss; the little minx had bitten him. He had to admit, he had almost gotten carried away, on the verge of careening off the edge from first base all the way home. But he had to stay focused. His entire career was on the line. He had ten days to win this bet and get Nesta Archeron to fall for him, head over heels.
There were worse people to seduce, he mused as Nesta opened the door to her cab. She was hot, smart, and just a little mean in a sexy way. The kind of woman who prided herself on being able to sniff out bullshit a mile away. Still, she had succumbed to his charm already. He wouldn’t need the full ten days.
Nesta turned just before getting into the cab, giving him a flirtatious wiggle of her fingers. Rhys blew her a kiss, causing her to roll her eyes and laugh. “Oh, you are already falling in love with me,” he murmured to himself.
Her mark was cute, she had to give him that. And a good kisser. Unsurprising, considering Nesta could practically smell the playboy sleeze coming off him in waves. It was a shame she couldn’t actually sleep with him, but that wasn’t part of the plan.
She could feel his eyes on her ass as she walked away. Rhysand was easy, and Nesta felt like she already knew everything about him. It had been laughably simple to get an invite over to his place. Men like that loved tittering docile women, but they craved someone with a little bit of a bite. Just a few minutes of flirty sarcasm and he was putty in her hands. The stage was perfectly set. She had ten days to drive him insane. Rhysand would lose it and break up with her. She’d write her article, and then her obnoxious boss would lighten up and let Nesta write whatever she wanted.
In the open doorway of the taxi she glanced back, displaying the gleaming arch of her neck. She waggled her fingers in farewell, and Rhys blew her a kiss from the balcony. It was so cheesy it prompted a real laugh, and she rolled her eyes. She looked up at him again once the cab door was closed and her face was shielded behind the window. Her coy grin shifted into a wicked smirk.
A disheveled Rhys I did at work a while back that I never posted. Figured I could share at least SOMETHING for @officialrhysandweek
I didn't even realize it was Rhysand week until yesterday, so I'm sure this could fit some of the other prompts, but it's also just a doodle so I think it's perfectly fine to post it on the Free Day.
To make up for the fact that he is literally at his lowest point here, have a more unserious bonus:
Feyre dies of old age. Rhys becomes a god to get her back.
Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses
Pairing: Feyre/Rhysand
Rating: Teen
Triggers: Major Character Death, Murder, Questionable Life Choices
Chapters: One-Shot
AO3 Link
For @officialrhysandweek Day 7: Free Day.
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Across the Universe
Nothing’s gonna change my world.
Across the Universe - The Beatles
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Once upon a time, Feyre died.
And, in one world, she was reborn. A high fae and High Lady to rule alongside her mate for centuries.
This was not that story.
Instead, Feyre died in Rhysand’s arms, an old woman.
They had had many happy decades together. And in those decades he had watched her body wither and tire. Her hair go bone white. Her skin turn pale and delicate. He did everything he could to delay the inevitable. Fed her rare tonics to boost her vitality. Scoured every inch of The Library for some spell or ritual to lengthen her life.
But, in the end, there was only so much one could do against the ravages of mortality.
And so, Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, spent his mate’s final days clutching her frail body to his own like at any moment she would be snatched away. He whispered his love into her ears and into her mind and reminisced with her over the life they had shared.
“I only wish…I had given you children,” she said, voice frail and soft now. “So I wouldn’t have to leave you alone.”
“No,” Rhys replied firmly.
It had been one of his greatest regrets, that he had never managed to give her a child. She had thought it was her failing, but secretly he thought perhaps it was his own. After all, the fae were not a fertile race the way humanity were. Children were as rare as they were cherished. So he hadn’t been surprised when no children had resulted from their union. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised.
“Put it out of your mind. I wouldn’t change anything. You’ve given me more than I could have ever deserved.”
It was an old argument. One she usually was more than happy to repeat over and over again.
But, it seemed, she was too tired now to argue.
And that was what scared him most.
He had tried to coax what little food he could into her, as if her favorite delicacies would stave off the inevitable just that little while longer.
“Please,” he had begged her, holding a bowl of broth to her lips. “Please, just one more.”
And, dutifully, she had choked down a few swallows. He knew it was solely for his benefit, her appetite having all but disappeared these last few weeks, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
He was afraid.
So very afraid.
And so, in a strange role reversal, it was the dying woman who found herself consoling an immortal in her final moments.
“Please don’t cry. You’re too pretty to cry. It makes me self conscious.”
Rhys couldn’t help but laugh at the old remark, even as he buried his face deeper into the hollow under her ear, staining her skin with his tears.
“Don’t talk. You’re wasting too much energy,” he scolded.
I’m going to die either way. She thought ruefully.
That just made him sob harder.
Her time came all too soon.
Rhys felt it when she finally died.
I love you, he said frantically to her fading consciousness. I’ll never stop loving you.
Feyre was too far gone to form real thoughts anymore, but he felt her love for him through the bond. Felt her sorrow at leaving him and the relief she felt at finally being free of the pained and broken body she was leaving behind.
And then the bond…broke.
And he felt her soul disappear beyond his reach.
And Rhysand felt a very necessary part of himself fracture and die with her.
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He went mad for a while.
His duties to his court went ignored. The inner circle, Mor and Amren especially, took on the brunt of keeping things running and making sure his subjects stayed in line. Not that he particularly cared either way. He had all but barricaded himself in his townhouse after his mate’s death.
He left only once, for her funeral.
Rhys buried Feyre under her favorite tree. A weeping willow that grew along the waterfront. It had been her favorite place to paint. He dug the grave himself. And then, afterwards, he went back to his empty home and wallowed in his grief for nearly a century.
By the time he emerged, he was nearly unrecognizable to those closest to him.
“You need a haircut.” Mor had said. They were the first words she had spoken to him in a decade.
She hadn’t been wrong either. His once perfectly groomed countenance had fallen into ruin. He had even grown a beard, something unusual amongst fae considering how long it took to grow. But then…he had nothing but time now.
Mor took pity on him. She assumed he had emerged to return to his duties. To distract himself from his grief with work. And Rhys didn’t correct her.
It was easier that way.
For a while, no one really seemed to notice what he was up to. He’d been isolated for so long that erratic behavior was all but expected from him.
But then, slowly, things began to stand out.
Like his endless visits to the Library. Or the information gathering missions he would send Azriel on across the sea. Or the ever more dangerous voyages he funded to bring back rarer and stranger artifacts.
It only became clear what was happening after it was far too late.
Mor was the first to confront him.
“You can’t.”
Those were the words that greeted Rhys one afternoon as he left his home.
“Can’t do what?” He said, his mind already elsewhere. Mor latched onto his arm and forced him to a standstill.
“You can’t bring her back.”
That got his attention.
Rhys’s eyes narrowed. Not in anger. But in challenge.
“Can’t I?”
The words chilled Mor to the core.
“She’s dead Rhys.”
The look he gave her made every one of her hairs stand on end.
“She’s dead,” she whispered again.
“Yes,” he said. “But I’m going to fix it.”
And then Mor watched him stalk off, terrified of what those words meant.
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Buried deep down in the darkest, oldest parts of the Library Rhys finally found his answers.
It seemed such a small thing when he finally brought it into the light. A brittle, fragile scroll made of vellum so ancient he wasn’t quite sure how it hadn’t crumbled into dust a millennia ago. It took ages to decipher the words upon it. The script was so faded and the language so archaic that even Amren had puzzled over it.
But Rhys was nothing if not stubborn and this too soon laid its secrets bare for him.
So many things he learned!
That there were other worlds. Whole sister universes. World just like his own with other Prythians and other Rhysands.
And, most importantly, other Feyres.
Of course, one could not just traverse between worlds as one would winnow from one place to another. This he knew all too well.
But, as it turned out, there were those who had.
The Daglan.
And so, it was with renewed conviction and fervor that Rhys saw the path now set before him.
He would become a god.
No matter the cost.
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To become a god, he discovered, one must first kill another god.
And, as it so happened, he soon discovered a goddess sleeping underneath his court. A creature of unparalleled beauty with snow-white skin and hair as dark as the night itself, sleeping ever so soundly in a crystal sarcophagus.
A Daglan.
It was shockingly easy to kill her. Goddess she may have been, but she was still weak from thousands of years of slumber. It took barely any effort at all for him to slide his knife into her breast and soak his clothes with her wine dark blood. To paint it onto his skin. And then to tear her heart from her chest and consume it whole as the old scrolls demanded.
But that was only the beginning. Those same scrolls demanded sacrifice. A whole manner of them. Godhood was not something so easily won.
Nothing worthwhile ever was.
They called for a blood sacrifice. So he culled the Court of Nightmares. They demanded he give up something of great worth. So he burned all of Feyre’s paintings.
On and on they went. Greater and greater forfeits. More and more significant pieces of his soul bartered away so that he might finally touch the divine.
And have the power to restore what was lost.
“This goes against everything the Mother stands for,” one of the priestesses told him one night as he set the Library alight.
It wouldn’t do to have anyone else following the same breadcrumbs he had. He couldn’t risk someone gaining the power to stop him.
“If the Mother cared she wouldn’t have taken her from me.” He didn’t need to say who. “I’m only taking back what was stolen from me.”
The priestess lifted her chin in defiance. “This isn’t what she would have wanted.”
“It doesn’t matter what she wants,” he said calmly as he watched the flames swallow thousands of years of knowledge. “She’s dead.”
But not for long, he thought.
Soon.
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It was a slow process.
One bought over many years and with a veritable ocean of blood. His blood. The blood of his enemies. The blood of the innocent. All of it ran together and baptized him anew.
No longer a creature of flesh and bone and sinew but of darkness and death and the endless void.
A god.
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Divinity was tearing a hole in the fabric of reality.
It was reaching past the boundaries of his world and grasping onto another. Sifting through all the endless realities and worlds until he found the one he wanted.
One where she still lived and breathed.
And then it was only a matter of slipping through that crack he had made.
And taking back what belonged to him.
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As it turned out, he didn’t have to search far before he found her.
He saw her, alive and defiant before a cruel queen he had not seen in centuries.
It took but the barest measure of his power to bring him before that broken (beautiful) human. Shocked gasps echoed through the mountain hall at his sudden arrival, but he heard none of them. All he could hear was the precious, lovely, sound of her beating heart.
Alive.
She was alive.
Behind him, the queen shrieked to her subjects. Once, this creature had tormented his nightmares, even long after she was dead and gone. But now, standing before her, he felt only irritation. Like the buzzing of a particularly annoying insect.
(And there was only one thing Rhys had ever done with annoying insects.)
With nothing more than a thought he tore open a hole in the universe and didn’t bother to watch the void swallow her whole. Around him, the crowd of fae shrank back in shock and terror.
All except for one.
His other self stared back at him.
Not that the other Rhysand knew it was himself he was staring at. He had been ever so careful to cobble together some semblance of his old mortal shape…though all he had managed in the end was a vaguely humanoid void. He was the vast darkness of space. The cold and unfeeling void. It was so very hard to contain all that now.
To be small.
But still, he had tried.
For her.
He heard the alarm from his other self then, as he realized this thing meant to take her. His mate.
(Because even then, he had known. He had always known.)
“Don’t worry,” the god said to his lesser self. And his voice was like the terrifying whisper that came from the shadows of a dark and empty room. “I won’t let you suffer without her.”
And then, with a sweep of his hand, the other Rhysand disintegrated. His atoms scattered like so many motes of dust on the wind.
It was a mercy.
After all, he had been forced to live without her once. He couldn’t very well subject his other self to the same fate. A god he may be, but he wasn’t that cruel.
He turned back to Feyre then.
She recoiled.
He felt her fear. Her confusion. But it took no more than a thought to wipe that all away and take her into his cold, dark embrace.
“Come,” he said. And then ushered her through the gap between worlds. Back to their home.
Where she belonged.
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Once upon a time, the Lady of the Night Court died.
But then, one day, she appeared once again. Hale and whole and young once more.
No one questioned how such a thing had been accomplished.
Summary: Rhysand and Vesta put on a show Under the Mountain
Cw: UtM Rhysand, borderline possessive Rhys, smoking, a little dry humping
The place Under the Mountain was dark, sunlight never graced the prisoners with its presence. It had been 2 months since Amarantha had tricked the High Lords and their close circle to trap them in a copy of her own little court.
Anyone else would've hated Vesta's job, but she got to dance around her fill, and had soon managed to ignore the not-so-innocent touches she got from the males and even some females. The only thing she did for certain was avoid eye contact with any of her family, though the feeling of pride burned in her heart at the thought of how her father hated her provocative dances.
We gon' drink drinks and take shots until we fall out
Like the roof on fire
With a sly grin, Vesta sways her hips to the rhythm of the underground music, her movements graceful yet provocative. Her dress, a sheer confection of blood-red lace that clings to every curve of her body, shimmers under the flickering candlelight as she spun, her dark red hair curled on her head, with a red headpiece pinned in.
Vesta's red dress flutters around her legs like a fiery comet, catching the dim light of the candles scattered across the room. The fabric is silky and thin, allowing anyone who cares to look beneath to see the tantalizing curves of her full breasts, small waist, and wide hips, the ilusion that her corset gave. She glides through the crowd effortlessly, each step punctuated by the jingle of the numerous sequins sewn into the bodice of her dress. Her dance is seductive, and enticing, leaving no one indifferent.
Now, baby, give a booty naked, take off all your clothes
And light the roof on fire
As she passes by a group of Lords, they can't help but reach out to touch her, their hands grazing her skin through the delicate fabric of her dress. She doesn't shy away from their advances, instead using their touches to enhance her performance, her eyes flashing with mischief and challenge.
She feels a familiar hand on her lower back, fingers tracing a tantalizing path down to the curve of her ass. She knows who it is without looking, High Lord Rhysand, one of the High Lords trapped here alongside her, one of the few people she had gotten closer to after being trapped. His touch always sends a thrill through her, despite herself.
Feeling Rhysand's touch, Vesta lets out a low chuckle, her body instinctively pressing back against his. She can't deny the magnetic pull between them, a force that transcends the petty politics and games of Courts. As much as she tried to maintain her composure, there was something about him, something that annoyed her how much it made her want him.
Sensing her reaction, Rhysand leans in closer, his hot breath fanning over her neck as he whispers something suggestive in her ear. His voice is a velvet caress, stirring up desires she thought long buried. But she won't give in so easily. Instead, she turns to face him, her deep amber eyes locking onto his violet ones.
His fingers trace a slow, deliberate path down her spine, lingering just above the curve of her ass before pulling away. He does this often, a game of cat and mouse, teasing her mercilessly without ever crossing any lines. But Vesta finds that she enjoys these little games, the way he pushes her buttons and gets under her skin. It's almost comforting.
She turns towards him, giving him a coy smile that promises more than she's willing to give.
Vesta turns to face him, her eyes flashing with defiance and desire. "You're such a fucking tease," Vesta turns to face him, her deep amber siren eyes glinting with mischief. She places her hands on his broad shoulders, leaning into him as she whispers in his ear, her voice sultry.
I saw, I came, I conquered
Or should I say, "I saw, I conquered, I came."
She pushed him to a chair nearby, her heel on his chest, digging in slightly. Using his magic, he formed a cigar hanging closely on his lips, he leaned closer, making her heels dig further, and used the inside of her thigh to light his cigar, putting the fire pumping in her veins to his use.
Vesta smirked at his audacity, her heart pounding with a mix of annoyance and arousal. The sensation sends a shockwave straight to her core, causing her to gasp softly. She could feel the warmth spreading from where his hand rested on her leg, heating her skin through the thin fabric of her dress.
His violet eyes lock onto hers, filled with an intensity that makes her knees weak. She watched him take a long drag from the cigar, the smoke curling around them both. A part of her wanted to push him away, to remind him of their precarious situation. But another part of her, the part that craved the thrill of danger and forbidden pleasure, urged her to stay put, to let him have his fun.
They say the chico on fire and he no liar
While y'all slippin’ he runnin’ the game
Vesta takes the cigar from Rhysand's lips, bringing it to her own and inhaling deeply. The rich tobacco flavor fills her mouth, mingling with the taste of him. She holds the smoke in her lungs for a moment before exhaling slowly, deliberately blowing the plume of smoke directly into Rhysand's face.
His eyes narrow, but he doesn't move away. If anything, he seems to lean into the cloud of smoke, inhaling deeply as if savoring the scent of her mixed with the aroma of the tobacco. The air between them crackles with tension, the smoke serving only to heighten the sensual atmosphere.
With renewed vigour, Vesta begins to sway her hips once more, her movements now charged with raw, carnal energy. She grinds against Rhysand, feeling his hardening cock press against her through the layers of fabric separating them, hard for her, for the adrenaline she gave him.
Now big bang boogie, get that kitty little noogie
In a nice, nice little shade
The tempo of the music picks up, matching the rapid beating of their hearts. She throws her head back, lost in the rhythm, her dark curls cascading down her back. Her hands roam freely over Rhysand's muscular form, tracing the contours of his arms, chest, and abs.
Rhysand responds in kind, his hands gripping her hips firmly, guiding her movements. Each thrust of her pelvis against his sends waves of pleasure coursing through their bodies, making them forget, for a moment, about the prison they were trapped in.
I gave Suzie a little pat up on the booty
And she turned around and said "Walk this way"
With each passing second, the pressure builds within them, a storm brewing beneath the surface. Their dance becomes less choreographed and more primal, driven by instinct rather than etiquette or decorum. The sound of their heavy breathing mixes with the thumping bass of the music, creating a symphony of lust and desire.
Their hands wander, exploring every inch of exposed flesh. Fingers trace along sensitive skin, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through their veins. The fabric of their clothes is the only barrier left between them, and it seems to grow heavier with each passing moment.
I was born in a flame
Momma said that everyone would know my name
Feeling Rhysand's strong arms wrap around her slender waist, Vesta allows herself to be pulled closer to him. She rests her head on his chest, her back pressed against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His presence is intoxicating, filling her senses until all she can focus on is him.
Her movements become slower, more sensuous now, mirroring the languid sway of the music. Every brush of her body against his sends a jolt of pleasure through her, causing her to arch her back and press herself further into him.
Rhysand's strong arms wrap around her, holding her close as he nuzzles into her neck. His lips trail gentle kisses along her jawline, sending shivers down her spine. One hand slides down to cup her breast, thumbing over the hardened nipple through the fabric of her dress. The world around them fades away, leaving only the two of them, lost in a sea of desire. Even when they knew everyone was watching, it was for show alone, for the High Queen who gleefully watched.
I'm the best, you've ever had
If you think I'm burning out, I never am
Her hands slide up his torso, fingers splaying across his broad chest as she nuzzles into his neck. She inhales deeply, committing his unique scent to memory - a blend of leather, smoke, and something undeniably masculine that sets her soul aflame, playing with him.
Without warning, he lifted Vesta off her feet as if she weighed nothing at all. She yelped in surprise, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck to steady herself.
He spun her around, and her skirt flared out like a crimson halo. The world blurs around them as they twirl faster and faster, the drugs and alcohol swirling in the pit of Vesta's stomach, the others becoming mere streaks of colour and movement. Vesta laughs uncontrollably, the adrenaline pumping through her system making her feel alive and invincible.
When Rhysand finally stops spinning, Vesta finds herself pressed against the wall, caged in by his strong arms. His face is inches from hers, his breath hot against her skin. "I think I've had enough dancing for now,"
Sticks and stones may break my bones
But I don’t care what y'all say
'Cause as the world turns, y'all boys gonna learn
That chico right here don't play
With a swift movement, Vesta slips from Rhysand's grasp, landing gracefully on the table once more. She reaches for the nearest bottle of bourbon, uncorking it with a pop and taking a generous swig. The liquor burns a trail down her throat, igniting a fire within her that matches the flames of desire already raging in her belly.
She passed the bottle to a High Fae nearby, melting into her dance again as Rhysand simply watched her.
Summary: In an AU where Faeries and humans live together, Rhysand finds himself in a little human ran bakery he's heard so much about.
Cw: Fluff, Rhys being typical Fae
You were working at a cosy bakery in a small town of humans, packing up some cupcakes for a customer while taking another's order. As you expertly wrapped the colourful cupcakes in their paper wrappers, the sweet aroma of freshly baked goods filled your senses. The bell above the door jingled, signalling another customer entering the quaint bakery.
With his black cloak swirling around him like smoke, Rhysand strides into the bakery. His presence is as palpable as the night itself, casting a shadow over the warm atmosphere of the room. The High Lord of Night Court scans the bakery, his violet eyes landing on you, your skin glowing against the white apron you wore. He approached you slowly, each step deliberate, a predator stalking its prey.
His ethereal form seemed to absorb the warm glow emanating from the ovens, leaving only an aura of mysterious shadows in his wake. The air around him rippled as if reality itself was bending to accommodate his presence. His piercing violet gaze swept over the bustling shop, pausing briefly on each customer, who all shrieked away from him, some rushing out, not used to having a Faerie this close to them.
"Good evening," He purred, his velvety voice sending shivers down your spine. "I wish to speak with the owner."
You feel your heart flutter nervously in your chest as Rhysand's intense gaze locks onto you. His words, dripping with that unmistakable faerie allure, same as his pointed ears, send a thrill through your body despite yourself. The other customers in the bakery have grown quiet, sensing the sudden shift in energy.
"You're talking to her." You reply, trying to keep your voice steady. "How can I assist you?"
Rhysand's lips curve into a sly smile, revealing just a hint of perfect teeth. "Oh, really? You seem far too young to be running a shop like this." As he leans in closer, the scent of starlight and something darker, more primal, fills your nostrils.
You frown when his coming closer makes the customers that were in a line move away, "What do you need from me, High Lord? You are scaring my people."
He looked at the customers. They seem a little wary of him, as if a stranger has entered their home. He looked back at you, and narrowed his eyes. "I had heard whispers of a skilled baker in this little town, right around this corner. I had to see with my own eyes the quality..." He smirked. "...You must be the best. For your little human town."
The compliment, though laced with his usual arrogance, still warms your cheeks with a blush. But you quickly shake off the flattery, focusing instead on his request. "Well, I'm glad you think so highly of my work, but we don't get many visitors from the Night Court or any faeries. What brings you here?"
His eyes glint with mischief as he takes a step closer, the air between you seeming to thicken with tension. "Ah, but why should I reveal my intentions so easily? Perhaps I've come merely to sample your finest pastries." His gaze travels down to your curves, clearly appreciating the view. "I don't suppose I can get a sample?"
"Yeah sure, samples are free." You gave him a smile, despite not knowing if the fae meant a sample of you or your baked treats, you looked up at him, and he seemed to be staring right into your soul, or a sample of you. You were about to tell him to wait his turn, but as you spun to your customers, all of them had retreated in corners. "Although I should charge you since you made most of my customers go away with your giant scary Fae-ness you carry."
The corner of his mouth twitches upwards in a smirk, clearly amused by your boldness. "Ahh, so feisty," he purrs, his violet gaze flashing with intrigue. "I didn't expect such spirit from someone in a humble bakery. Thought I suppose I am a little intimidating..."
I raise my brow at him "You suppose?"
"You could say that again," Rhys said, his tone teasing yet laden with a dangerous edge. "But perhaps I should be asking myself why you're so willing to entertain a visitor from the Night Court. After all, aren't you afraid of what might happen if you let your guard down?"
"Well, you're a guest here, and I don't discriminate." You say, even if stupidly, "Now, what would you like to try?"
The smirk fades slightly from Rhysand's face as he watches you, studying your every reaction with those unnerving eyes. "A guest, huh?" he muses aloud. "Interesting choice of words. Usually people show much more caution."
Then, with a wave of his hand as if flicking away any remaining doubt or concern, he moved towards the display case filled with delectable treats, reading their names. "Let's start with something simple, perhaps one of those... Apple tarts?"
"Of course," With a nod, you pick out the little sample of the tart and offer it to him, set on a mini plate to match.
The moment your fingers brush against his, a jolt of electricity seems to shoot through both of you. It's almost as if the air itself crackles with potential energy. Rhysand doesn't miss a beat, however, he accepts the plate gracefully and brings it to his lips.
As he bites into the treat, a look of pure satisfaction crosses his face, the kind usually reserved for pleasure rather than food. "Delicious," he murmurs, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth with a finger. "You have quite the talent, darling." His voice was rich with pleasure. "You certainly know how to indulge in the finer things."
You snort softly, bussing yourself in cleaning the counter top, "Not words I thought a Faerie would say to a human,"
"Oh? Why not?" Rhysand asked, arching an eyebrow at you. He took another bite, smaller this time, relishing the sweet flavour and texture. There was no doubting his genuine enjoyment, which surprised you a little. But then again, the High Lord of the Night Court was known for his extravagant taste.
"Your surprise amuses me," he added, his smirk making another appearance. "Is it so unexpected for a Fae to appreciate mortal pleasures? Perhaps we are more alike than you realize."
"Oh, it is very unexpected." You smile, "But I appreciate it nonetheless. Just don't kidnap me in the middle of the night and force me to make pastries for you." You say dead serious. "I've read faelore. I would put ash and iron in your food."
The amusement never leaves Rhysand’s eyes as he listens to your conditions, and for a moment, you wonder whether he finds your fears amusing or simply entertaining. "Kidnapping you?" he repeats, his voice tinged with mock horror. "Whatever gave you that idea?"
However, he lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly. "No kidnapping, no forced baking. At least not tonight. But who knows about tomorrow?"
The High Lord takes another bite of the tart, savouring the taste while watching your reaction carefully. He knows everyone else has left by now, and he didn't even get to show them his true power, "It seems you've been well-informed about our ways," he says after swallowing. "I must admit, it's refreshing. Most humans are either too scared or too naive to bother learning anything beyond basic folklore."
He places the empty plate aside and looks directly into your eyes, his gaze piercing. "But tell me, what else did your readings reveal?"
"Never tell a faerie your real full name," I say confidently.
"Well, I have bad news for you, Ms. y/n l/n." He said your full name, eyes serious for a moment. "Your name is on the board hanging merrily outside."
Your eyes widen in shock at the revelation, "I-" you start, and the words catch in your throat. That was awfully careless of you, but then again, you didn't think a fae would show up on your shop.
Rhysand watches your reaction with a mixture of triumph and curiosity, clearly enjoying the power he holds over you now. "Don't worry," he assures you, his voice still eerily calm. "I won't use it for ill intent… Today."
His words have started to annoy you, the same teasing and taunts over and over again. You open your mouth to say something but shut it back up, glaring at him.
"Annoyance suits you," he remarks, observing your increasingly frustrated demeanour with an air of casual amusement, of course, he could read your mind, you groan to yourself. "Such passion, and it's all directed at me."
Leaning back against the counter, Rhysand crosses his arms over his chest, the picture of nonchalant superiority. "Do you often find yourself at the mercy of Faeries? Or is it just my intoxicating charm that has you flustered?"
"I am not flustered." You huff, flabbergasted.
"Oh, really?" Rhysand challenges, tilting his head slightly to the side. "Because it seems to me like you're struggling to maintain control. Is it because I'm so charming? So irresistible? Or perhaps it's because you secretly crave being ensnared by the High Lord of the Night Court?"
"Oh yeah, every human woman wants a fae male to take her away so that she loses all her freedom." You roll your eyes but before you could've said a thing more, the fae disappeared right before your eyes. Then you inhale sharply, stunned when you notice a small pouch on the counter, you open it and your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull at the gold marks that spilt out, currency that was high even for faeries.
A note accompanied it too, 'I have a particular fondness for witty girls. They tend to make the most interesting company.' easy to say, your first experience with a fae was a bizarre one. Leaving your bakery with a chill surrounding it, and only then you realised that you were alone in the place.
Summary - Dance with Danger - Learning the High Lord's secret has you on the run. Too bad he found you in the place you least expected
Warnings - setting up predator/prey play without touching the smut point, evil Rhysand theory *like way evil*, Liz used her favorite line from the bad Rings of power series, cliffs (in a couple of senses), threats, implied mention of the Winter Court incident
A/N - Happy Day Six of @officialrhysandweek ! I'm kind of excited about this little guy and what I could do with him. That hasn't happened in a while 👉👈 lemme know whacha think?
You were caught, and you knew it, but that didn't stop you from running, from using every tree as cover.
In reality, it was his own fault you had discovered this long hidden family secret. This constant ink smear on his father's family tree. Azriel had trained you far too well as a spy, Rhysand had trained you in too much detail as a researcher. You were too smart, and he had welcomed you in far too easily.
You had been running from him for over a week and a half now. Staying in animal forms until today when you somehow ended up in a different place while attempting to shift onto a new creature. You had a feeling where you were, but you continued to force him to chase just praying you were wrong.
He would blame that on your beautiful smile, on those innocent wide eyes, and the soft naivety in your voice. It didn't change his anger as he tracked you through the forest in Illyria. You had tried winnowing, but it was as if he'd already done something to you. Something that was keeping you trapped within the Night Court.
Nowhere was safe.
And it was almost your own fault for making it that way.
That smear in the family tree, that blurred name you had been stupid enough to unveil, was just the beginning. From that discovery, you'd learned through your shifting powers far more than Rhysand wanted you to. You should have left it alone, ignored that first eavesdropped conversation, but you know what they say"
Curiosity killed the cat.
You have learned his marriage to Feyre was fake. The bond was manipulated through magic. Magic he had planted to ensure she came to be by his side, and there would be no one powerful enough to stop him.
His death at the Cauldron had been planned. A way for him to gather pieces of life force from the other High Lords while also stealing some from a hysterical Feyre.
Nyx had been planned. A way to get Nesta to give her powers back to the Cauldron.
And Elain, poor Elain. The female had no clue what Rhysand and the Inner Circle had in mind for her. At least, if they could get her to reject the bond.
Rhysand had the very world itself playing in his hand, exactly how he wanted it. Thousands to bow to his feet, to worship him, and you now had the potential to jeopardize everything.
You continued running, lungs burning from the icy mountain air. He knew if he didn't catch you, you would die out here. You were so deep into the mountains that only he and his brothers could get you back at this point. Yet you still pushed on. Unknowingly irritating him further as a loud snarl tore through the woods near you.
It amazed you the level he had gone to in order to accomplish his plans. Collecting the most powerful beings in the land, placing them in his back pockets, and never looking back as he slowly began dismantling the other courts of Prythian one by one.
Spring had been a test. A successful one to prove to him that all High Lords had a price. A breaking point. He'd all but destroyed Tamlin with, as you had overheard him telling his brothers, “an only half decent cunt.” He knew the rest were weak as well.
Tarquin was naive. A spy already planned in his home.
Beron was prideful. His executor sleeping soundly in the bedroom near his.
Kallias was a new Father. Vulnerable. Emotional. Rhysand wasn't above killing children. He had already shown that.
Thesan was too smart to see anything coming. He believed the world was figured out. He believed he had the other courts figured out.
And Helion, loving, kind hilarious Helion? He'd follow Lady Autumn in her death is something…. Mistakenly happened to her.
Rhysand was cruel. He was the monster of legend he was made out to be.
And he was growing closer to you with each breath, each step, each beat of your heart.
A wrong turn ended the chase as you stared face to face with a cliff. The fall would be brutal, and you felt hope leaving you as you tried to think of any other way to escape.
“Well, little mouse, looks like you are out of options,” that feline line voice was enough to make to turn, facing your former friend and boss with neutral features.
“Rhysand.”
“At least you know your place. Only my-”
“Enemies and prisoners call you Rhysand. Yes, I've heard you use the same old line many times.”
One step back, one forward.
“What all do you know, Mouse?”
You didn't bother staying silent, watching as he began one step forward, and you one step back. “I know your plan to have all of Prythian under your thumb within the next year. To collapse the courts so quickly that no one can stop you.”
He began circling you like prey, gaze almost sad as he appreciated you one last time. You continued with a deep breath, “I know you planted the mating bond on Feyre through magic. That you are using her and her sisters. Who, you, actually sold out and paid Hybern to say was Ianthe's doing.”
He chuckled but didn't deny it. “And I know you are a quarter daglan.”
That made him stop, nodding slowly as he processed what you had said, “So, in summary, you figured out everything.” He circled you again, a look of disappointment beginning to show. “I had hoped to make something of you. To slowly bring you to my side and my web. Do you know how rare you are? How rare those precious powers of yours are given? Tamlin can't even take different forms as seamlessly as you can.”
One step forward.
One step back.
“I don't want to have to kill you, little mouse. Let's make an agreement?”
You shot him a look instantly, “What kind?”
“You join my Inner Circle, sworn to silence on all of this information, and I will still give you what I planned to. So long as you keep quiet and continue doing as you are told.”
One step forward.
One back that led to him grabbing you by your elbow, balance slipping as you began to hang over the edge.
“I can see your greatness, y/n. The power inside of you aching to be set free. I can give that to you. I can give you the true place by my side once this is all said and done.”
Had your eyes not already been wide, they would have been now, “You would make me a tyrant.”
Rhysand only smirked, flawless face no longer hiding the evil that lurked beneath his skin like a disease, “No. I would make you a queen. One worshiped from land to sea. One thought to be as powerful as the Mother herself. You just have to say yes before my grip slips.”
He let his grip go a second, catching you at your mid-forearm. A perfect brow arched as you looked down, panicking as you realized how high you truly were about to fall from.
“Not high enough to die,” he confirmed casually. “High enough to maim and leave you here bleeding out.” His grip loosened again, catching your lower forearm, “Either way, I get rid of a problem. Your choice.”
Your heart was threatening to pound out of your chest as your eyes met his calm ones. “I planned all of this as well, by the way. I really thought you would have fallen for Azriel's charm, but alas, you didn't.” He seemed almost bored as he held your life within one of his hands. “Azriel warned me he wasn't your type and that I could only fake what you and I both know if actually between us for so long.”
His grip slipped, laughing as you screamed and he caught your wrist, “I had hoped you would be a smart little mouse and come to me instead of running when I made sure you learned everything, but those damn morals of yours. How pathetic for the Cauldron to have given me of all males such a righteous mate.”
That smirk turned feral as he realized you didn't know. His eyes began to almost glow with excitement. “Oh little mouse, you really are just a stupid thing, aren't you?”
His grip slipped once again, catching you by lacing your fingers in his, admiring how snug and perfect they felt together.
“Last chance, y/n. Agree to my terms or die.”
He was so cold to you. So uncaring. He hadn't expected your last move, you unlacing your own fingers from his. You making the choice without his input. You falling.
And the last thing you remembered was the cold air ripping your breath from your lungs before impact ever came.
Summary: Rhysand and Rheana discover their true heritage that their paternal family buried deep down
Cw: None
Rhysand and Rheana had managed to clean up everything of their parents and sister, kept what mattered to them, and begrudgingly gave away everything else.
The pair carefully packed away items that held sentimental value - paintings, letters, trinkets, and keepsakes. They even found time to preserve memories they shared together, such as recipes for meals cooked by their mother and little crafts their sister did, they would always joke about how she couldn't stick to one, handmade cards created by their father during the rare moments of his love for their mother. Every memento was handled with care and placed securely within boxes marked with their names.
Only one last thing remained, It was a large estate filled with rooms upon rooms of treasures accumulated over generations, something their father had yet to tell them about, Rheana had learned about it in a letter under her parents' bed. It would take days just to go through all of it. Yet, they knew they couldn't keep every single item, some things were simply too valuable or too cumbersome for two young adults to maintain alone.
"What do we do with this?" Rhysand asked, walking through the halls of one of the biggest mansions they had ever seen, surprise filled both the siblings.
As she turned a corner, Rheana's footsteps echoed off the marble floors, not polished in quite a while, the air thick with the scent of old books and wood. She gazed around at the opulent furnishings, gold leaf adorning every surface, crystal chandeliers unlit, covered in cobwebs, and walls lined with tapestries depicting fantastical creatures.
"This," she said, running a hand along the carved armrest of a plush velvet sofa, "is beyond anything our family has ever owned. How did our grandparents acquire such wealth?"
Rhysand joined her, his eyes scanning the room with a mix of awe and trepidation. He'd never seen so much grandeur in one place before. It felt overwhelming, like trying to drink from an aggressive waterfall.
"I don't know," he admitted, "but whatever happened, we can't possibly keep all of this."
Rheana noted an old trunk in the corner of the main halls, with a curious expression, she moved to it, her arm muscles flexed while prying the lock open with her bare hands, inside it were old books, brown and yellow in pages, bound by old leather that was falling apart.
Rhysand walked up behind her, "What is it, sister?"
Rhysand peered over Rheana's shoulder as she gently opened one of the dusty books. The pages crackled as they turned, revealing handwritten notes in elegant script, accompanied by intricate illustrations of various lands and peoples.
"These look ancient," Rhysand remarked, tracing a finger over a faded map depicting the Night Court's territory centuries ago. "Our ancestors must have been quite the explorers."
Rheana nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration as she scanned the text. "It seems they documented their travels, trade agreements, and interactions with other courts and kingdoms. There's also mention of powerful artifacts and magical beings they encountered along the way."
She paused, her eyes widening as she read further. "Wait, look at this entry from Grandmother Eira. It speaks of a legendary sword, said to grant immense power to its wielder."
The words caused both siblings to exchange glances, filled with intrigue and curiosity. They were no strangers to magic or mythical weapons, having grown up in a world populated by immortal faeries and creatures of all kinds, but this sounded particularly extraordinary.
"There's no record of such a weapon in our family history," Rheana said, flipping through more pages. "Perhaps it was lost or forgotten over time."
"But why would our grandmother make note of it?" Rhysand wondered aloud, leaning closer to examine the delicate handwriting. "Unless she knew someone who possessed it or sought it out herself."
The notion sparked an idea in Rheana's mind. "Maybe there's a clue here about how to find it, or who might still have it today."
As dusk settled over the estate, Rheana and Rhysand continued to pore over the journals, searching for any clues that could lead them to the mysterious weapon. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows across the aged parchment, heightening the suspense of their hunt.
Eventually, Rhysand came across another intriguing passage written by Great-Grandmother Azrae, who, according to the texts had been known for her wisdom and strategic prowess. It seemed she had spent years searching for the elusive blade, visiting various temples, ruins, and hidden sanctums throughout Faerie.
"She must've been obsessed with finding it," Rhysand murmured, reading aloud from the journal. "But none of these places sound familiar to me."
"Because these places aren't from Night Court... They're from Hybern..." Rheana whispered, feeling dread, their grandmother and great-grandmother were living in Hybern. They had been all their lives. "I've seen this lake on the maps." Rhysand flipped through the pages, to the maps that now didn't look like the Night court in the slightest, "Our family... They lived there... But how?"
As the gravity of the situation sank in, the siblings fell silent, their gazes glued to the faded ink scrawled across the ancient parchment. They realized they weren't merely dealing with the legacy of two deceased parents or their beloved sister but an entire dynasty rooted deeply in the world of Fae politics and conflict.
"This changes everything," Rhysand finally broke the silence, his voice laced with uncertainty yet determination. "We can't ignore the possibility that whatever secrets our grandparents kept were intertwined with Hybern... Their... Our family."
"We need to keep looking," Rheana replied sternly, her mind racing with questions about her ancestry she hadn't pondered until now. It made sense, the dreading knowledge that a part of their ancestry was connected with Hybern, the daemati abilities their grandmother showed, what their father showed, what they showed. No Fae in Prythian had those abilities, because it wasn't from Prythian, but from the line of kings that ruled Hybern, it was power frequent in their world. She flipped the pages, "Here, look..." She whispered, catching something in one of the pages, it stated how their grandmother had found her mate in a Night Court heir, she turned more pages, "This must be when she fell in love with grandfather... She was pregnant with father in less than 3 years... That's almost unheard of, no one concieves this early."
Rhysand leaned in closer as Rheana pointed to the entries detailing their grandmother's life, his heart pounding with anticipation. Each word, each stroke of the quill, painted a picture of a woman caught between worlds, torn between loyalty to her birthright and love for a man from a rival land.
He felt a shiver run down his spine as he realized the depth of his own connection to Hybern, not just through his parents but through his very own bloodline. The weight of that knowledge settled heavily upon him, a burden he wasn't sure he was prepared to carry.
"What does it say?" Rhysand asked softly, his voice tinged with reverence for the woman whose legacy now entwined their own destinies.
Rheana's eyes widened as she read further, her breath hitching. "It says… No..."
Rhysand stared at Rheana, his mind reeling from the implications of her words. Their family tree, once thought to be relatively simple, had suddenly branched out into a tangled web of royal lineage and ancient rivalries. The pieces began to fall into place - their parents' untimely deaths, the whispers of dark magic, the sheer power that radiated from within the walls of the Night Court estate.
"No what?" Rhysand asked urgently, noticing the shock and horror etched onto his sister's face.
"Father was... We are..." Rheana shut the book. There was so much they didn't know about their families, what made them as powerful as they were, but their grandmother being from Hybern, they were probably related to the king distantly and their grandfather being the descendant of the most powerful Lordd of their time, they were bound to be powerful. It was their destiny. "We never really learned where our grandmother came from... She was next in line... She gave up the crown to be with grandfather."
Rhysand looked at the house they were in with a different light, trying to find answers to the new questions that emerged, avoiding the easiest answer that was waving at his face, refusing their relation to Hybern, and the magic they showed.
There was nothing before, there was nothing now, Rhysand didn't feel a single thing, he couldn't, because if he allowed himself to feel, he would feel Amatantha's touch on his body.
Disgust was the only thing he ever felt for that female, from when she had held him at a camp decades ago to torture him during the War, it seemed the female had found a new way to hurt him. It was all for what his father did, murdering her friend.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles turning white under the strain. The bitter taste of anger filled his mouth, making him want to spit out words of hatred but instead, he swallowed them down, refusing to give her the satisfaction.
The High Lord of the Night Court forced himself to focus on something else – anything else – to distract himself from the overwhelming emotions threatening to consume him.
One tells the truth, the other's lying
And they're both calling my name
As he walked down the diaz, hands in his pocket, a look of indifference on his face, he couldn't help but here the people hiss at him, Amarantha's whore, they called him, the Attor and creatures like him were holding two young fae males of Dawn Court, both scared. Scared of him. They looked so innocent, so vulnerable, caught up in a war not of their making. It twisted his heart in ways he thought he'd forgotten how to feel, or at least, show on his face.
They were Peregryn, large beautiful wings with pure white feathers sprouting from their backs, he titled his head, not showing a single emotion as one of them reached for his feet, begging for his mercy. He didn't see the males, but he saw Cassian and Azriel in their places, the thought of his friends being the ones to lose their wings made his stomach turn. He knelt in front of them, he said nothing, watching them cry, he could feel the gaze of the High Lord of Dawn bore into his back, his son, Thesan, watching hiding a little behind his father.
Scream. He simply said in the minds of the two Peregryns, holding their minds in his hand, he couldn't feel anything. He made sure they wouldn't be able to either as the creatures behind them gripped onto their wings, coarse hands plucking at their feathers.
The agonized screams pierced the air, echoing off the stone walls of the cavernous room. Tears streamed down the faces of the Peregryns as more and more feathers were brutally ripped from their wings, they couldn't struggle, couldn't feel pain, but their acting was good enough to convince people they were hurting, still not as good as his.
This is how villains are made
The sounds of cries, the feeling of their anguish, it all washed over him like a tidal wave, leaving him cold and empty inside. He could convince himself he wasn't Amarantha's whore, but he had become Amrantha's monster, nothing could change that.
With a bull whip in hand, he landed strikes on the dark flawless back of the High Lord of Summer, the male had been caught sneaking around by one of Amrantha's centries, and she made Rhysand deliver the punishment as she made the Lady Summer watch. His magic didn't work here, none of theirs did in that sector of the duenguns. The High Lord of Summer felt every strike, Amarantha was sitting beside the scene, a squeal of delight with every time the High Lord cried out.
Rhysand wanted to stop, for a moment he considered turning on his heel and striking at her, but he couldn't, he was motral in this cell, weak compared to her, it would do none of them any good, Amrantha cleared her throat, that made him realise that he had stopped the punishment, with the way she looked at him, she knew he would be next, she said she did that to properly show how to deliver punishments, and he hated every second of it.
He spared the Lady Summer a single glance, both of them knew that she and her High Lord were about to die, with tears streaking down her cheeks, she spat at him. He wiped away at his clothes, he really had forgotten how to feel.
Rhysand met her gaze, those turquiose eyes glaring at him with pure unadulterated hate, he wanted to tell her that she didn't know him, that he wasn't this person, that he didn't want to do this, but he couldn't find the words. He looked at the bloddied whip in his hands, but he was a monster, because he had done it. He deserved her haterate, their haterate, worse even.
He dropped the whip and turned to walk away, ignoring the sobbing of the High Lord and his mate. Another scar burned into his soul, another piece of himself lost forever. He had become exactly what he hated most, a cruel and vicious monster, just like Amarantha. And yet he kept going.
No one ever starts that way
But this is how villains are made
He wasn't always like that, in times like these he tried to remind himself about how things were before everything, before the War, before when everything was a little more normal.
He reminded himself of the moments with his lovely mother, his fierce little sister and the warmth of his childhood home in Velaris, the laughter, the love, the sense of belonging, with his mother, sister, and chosen brothers.
He remembered the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the kitchen, the sound of his mother's voice as she sang while cooking, the way his sister used to chase him around the house, giggling uncontrollably. Those memories were his lifeline, the threads that kept him grounded amidst the darkness.
But even as he clung to them, the weight of his current existence pressed down upon him. The blood on his hands, the screams still ringing in his ears, the knowledge that he was complicit in the suffering of others, it all threatened to drown out the remnants of his former self.
Time to put my medal on
Whose neck to cut? I don't know.
But even that peace was taken from him. He had made the wrong friend. Tamlin, High Lord of Spring, he had betrayed him, led his father and brothers to where his mother and sister would be. He had got them killed, his mother and sister were defenceless. And Tamlin's betrayal had led to their death.
It was a brutal reminder of the consequences of trust misplaced, of the fragility of life. He felt the familiar numbness creeping over him again, a defense mechanism against the unbearable pain of loss. He couldn’t afford to dwell on the past, not when there was still a war to fight, a court to run, lives to protect. His eyes narrowed, the memory of Tamlin’s betrayal burning like acid in his veins.
Whose side I'm on?
He stood outside Tamlin's manor, his mask over his face, every time he thought of the male, all he could see was his mother and sister's heads crammed in a box he had received while in Windhaven. All he could feel was pain that Tamlin had given him.
His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, knuckles turning white under the strain. A low growl rumbled in his throat, barely audible above the wind whistling through the trees surrounding Tamlin’s manor. The image of his family’s decapitated heads sent waves of nausea coursing through him, his stomach churning violently. He hated Tamlin, hated him with every fiber of his being, that who was once a friend wasn't a thing to him anymore.
There lies my sanity
There goes my mind, I could not save
He rembered finding their bodies after he had called out to his father in panic, both the males were on the ground, holding their females, rage, anger, sadness, they felt everything. The sight was a grusome one, the bodies were missing heads, and their wings. It was the first time Rhysand had ever seen his father cry, tears in his own eyes as he watched his father hold and press the severed head of his mother to her body, as if trying to join them, as if it could fix anything.
His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the horror of that day, the agony of loss searing itself into his soul. He could still hear his father's anguished sobs, the gut-wrenching grief that shook his usually stoic father to his core. He remembered the sickening sensation of his own tears streaming down his face, the raw, unbearable pain of knowing he'd never see his beloved mother and sister again.
The memory of their mutilated bodies, the gruesome sight of their missing heads and wings, haunted him relentlessly. It was a nightmare he’d wake up from screaming, drenched in sweat, heart pounding wildly in his chest. But it wasn't a dream, it was reality - a harsh, cruel reality that he had to live with, forever etched into his mind.
I don't trust what I see right in front of me
I don't know who to betray
Rhysand had joined his father when they snuck to Spring Court, he didn't feel like himself then, he had never felt anger like he did holding the minds of the two elder heirs of Spring, they had went after his family, struck down defenceless females, and he couldn't help but enjoy the fear in their eyes, turning them into the defenceless ones. Their fear was palpable, tangible, an intoxicating rush that coursed through his veins, fueling his anger, his hatred, his desire for vengeance.
There was no denying the satisfaction he’d derived from watching those bastards squirm in fear, the thrill of power as he toyed with their emotions, twisting their thoughts into a labyrinth of terror and despair. He enjoyed their fear, relished in their discomfort, wallowing in the pleasure of revenge. It was a dangerous addiction, born out of desperation and pain. He knew it wasn't right, that he shouldn't revel in their fear, but he couldn't help himself. They deserved it.
This is how villains are made
This is how villains are made
He had killed those males. Tortured them till their bodies gave away, and he had enjoyed every twisted moment of it. He savored the taste of their fear, the sweet tang of their terror. It was addictive, intoxicating, a drug that numbed the pain of his losses, the guilt that gnawed at his conscience. He knew it was wrong, that he should feel remorse, pity perhaps, but instead, he felt liberated. Free from the chains of sorrow and regret.
He wasn't able to save his mother and sister, but as he stood in that room, covered in Spring blood, he knew he had avenged them. A twisted solace in the knowledge that justice had been served, albeit in the most brutal and merciless manner possible. The blood on his hands, the stench of death clinging to his skin, it was a grim reminder of the price he'd paid for vengeance, but also a testament to the lengths he'd gone to honor his family's memory.
In that moment, standing amidst the bloodbath he'd brought, Rhysand finally allowed himself to acknowledge the true extent of himself. He was no longer the carefree, mischievous young prince he once was. He was a creature forged in the depths of anguish and wrath, a being driven by a singular purpose: to protect those he loved, no matter the cost.
So easily we're persuaded
When the lines are blurred and faded
Now he watched in amusement, Tamlin and Lucien kneeling on the floor, begging him, their hands at his feet, he had the thought of crushing Tamlin's head under the heel of his boot, instead he took pleasure in that moment alone. That male was nothing to him, he would never be anything against him.
Because whoever he had become, this cold, cruel creature, Tamlin had been the first to turn him to this direction when he betrayed him. Rhysand couldn't shake off the feeling that Tamlin bore some responsibility for the monster he'd become. That betrayal, the brutal murder of his family, had shattered something fundamental within him, unleashing a torrent of anger and grief that he struggled to contain even still.
Tamlin may have been the catalyst, but Rhysand knew that he himself had chosen this path, embracing the darkness to survive, to protect those he cared about.
