"𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐔𝐏," 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃; 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐌𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒.
𝙄𝙉 𝙒𝙃𝙄𝘾𝙃 the youngest archeron was
born with her soul bathed in starlight.
...
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✧ ˚ 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐃 of the Night Court truly was, 𝙍𝙃𝙔𝙎 remembered admiring him in the way only a son ever would. Some days, before his mother sent him to Illyria, he'd follow him around to his council meetings, dreaming of being just as powerful as him once he finally grew out of Fae adolescence.
At the time, his father had been more than willing to shape him into his perfect little heir. It was only after his time in Illyria, once he'd grown into his own person, that his father's behavior towards him began to change.
Rhys would never try to claim the male had been a good father. But as a Fae youngling, to him, being such a commanding presence was all that was important. Perhaps that was why he'd created his mask in the first place, and why he couldn't bring himself to destroy it once and for all.
"Trust is a weakness, Rhysand," his father once told him. "It is a luxury that Fae in our position cannot afford. Guard your heart, and you will never find yourself betrayed or disappointed."
Unwillingly, those words had stuck with him as the years passed by. Sure, he trusted his Inner Circle, but Rhys had always beheld them as the exception, not the rule. That belief was only strengthened by what had happened with Tamlin. Then, ten years ago, he began dreaming of a soft-at-heart mortal girl, and his view on the world had been all but turned upside down.
Looking back on it, that advice was just foreshadowing to his father's future paranoia.
Feyre jolted from her sitting position against the stone wall of her pitiful excuse for a cell as he stepped out of a shadow. Rhys barely glanced at her as he crossed the room and slumped to the floor, head dropping to his hands. The fabric of his partly unbuttoned tunic rustled with each movement.
"What do you want?" she demanded. Rhys knew he couldn't blame her distrust of himㅡafter all he'd done in the guise of his plans, he was well aware he'd brought it on himselfㅡbut annoyance still flashed through him.
"A moment of peace and quiet," he snapped back irritably, before heaving a drawn out sigh and rubbing his temples.
His Asteria was asleep when he felt Amarantha's call. After so many times spent returning in the middle of the night, interrupting the peaceful sleep he knew came to her so rarely, he couldn't justify continuing. She didn't deserve to be burdened by him. And yet, selfishly, he would always long for her. All of it, from the disgust he felt in the moments after that room of red and humiliation, to the self-hatred that had only grown in the last fifty years, seemed to melt away in her beaming light.
Feyre paused at his answer, stunned to silence. He could still feel her eyes as she studied him, though. Finally, softer than wind, she questioned, "Why?"
